A Remedy for Lassitude
by firefly
Summary: Ennui is an unavoidable feature in a summer spent taking care of a rehabilitating brother. Never did it occur to Temari to think that finding a pen pal in an eccentric soldier on the other side of the world might help cure it. AU.
1. Chapter 1

A Remedy for Lassitude

By: firefly

Note **(PLEASE READ)**: This fic was originally supposed to be a oneshot (lol like so many others) and was written as a gift for the wonderful Mausmouse, who's made many beautiful illustrations for my fics over at Deviant Art.

But, uh, I got carried away again, and so this fic will probably be separated into THREE chapters at most. So, before you read, please note:

This fic is blatantly AU and takes place in a real world type setting, so if that's not your thing, don't read it. Secondly, although the characters' ages are pushed up a little in the fic, the difference in years and the rest of the information (like date of birth and horoscope) are accurate. (The 3rd Naruto data book says Hidan is 22 years old, btw.)

I think that's it, except some character relationships (like Chiyo and Temari's) are changed accordingly to fit the fic's needs, hence it being AU.

That's all. :D Hope you guys enjoy, and reviews are always love.

* * *

"Ultimately the bond of all companionship, whether in marriage or in friendship, is conversation."

—Oscar Wilde

* * *

A Remedy for Lassitude ch.1

_Only eighteen and already world-weary. Happy birthday._

Temari smiled slightly at the words, pressing the creases out of the letter before carefully folding it in half once more. She deposited it back into the envelope, securing it to the others with an elastic band before placing them back into the empty shoe box.

Several knick-knacks littered the carpet around her, little mementos of places her grandmother had travelled to and sent along with her letters. There was one vial containing sand from the Sahara desert, one containing water from the Dead Sea, and another holding an ounce of volcanic ash from the base of Mount Vesuvius. Each vial had detailed stories to go along with them, letters reminiscent of diary entries and logbooks.

The letters had been a weekly insight into the world beyond the four walls that had encompassed most of Temari's childhood and teenage years. Chiyo had always been a free spirit, a person of good humour and determination that defied the circumstances of their family; she refused to stop living, persevering whether it was a son who could not stop meandering in criminal affairs, a son-in-law who committed suicide after his sister's death, or a grandson who'd been hauled away to a psychiatric hospital after succumbing to the voices in his head.

She'd spent the last decade of her life traveling the world, intent on accomplishing her dreams and securing the money for the grandchildren she'd left behind.

It had been a habit of hers, teasing Temari with the remark on world-weariness with every letter she'd send on her granddaughter's birthday. The one she'd sent on her eighteenth birthday, two years ago, had been the last before she passed. Her death had been followed closely by Temari's father's, though no grief was expressed for the latter. His death had been more of an act of emancipation.

Temari took the mementos in her hands and it was with a measured reverence she placed them back into the box and under her bed. Shaking her head, she reached for the item she'd originally been looking for—a case of her financial documents and cheque book.

Chiyo had passed away two years ago, but only after tying up the loose ends in her life.

She had amassed enough money to pay off the house's mortgage and ensure at least five years of comfortable living for her grandchildren. Temari was grateful; between pursuing a degree in botany and taking care of a rehabilitating brother, she had no time to work.

Paying the bills was still a relatively new thing for her, too, and so was answering the phone as the head authority in the house. She still didn't know how to respond whenever telemarketers and bankers asked to speak to her parents.

The living room was empty when Temari entered, a testament to the fact that Gaara was still asleep. He'd been started on a new medication for his insomnia, and although it kept him sleeping late into the afternoon and kept his appearances scarce, it was better than seeing him tormented by the figments of a sleep-deprived mind.

He'd been discharged from the hospital after a two-week stay, returning home as soon as her classes ended and summer break began. That had been a month ago, and Temari could easily say she hadn't stepped out for a breath of fresh air more than twice since then. She couldn't trust him to be alone that long, and though the prospect of two more months spent indoors made her cringe, she would not complain.

Out of them all, no one had suffered more than Gaara. He'd been the one to find their uncle's dead body in the blood-soaked bathtub and had never been the same since.

Kankuro took it upon himself to work during the summer, footing the bill for takeout and little extras like movies and books more often than Temari liked. A part of her realized he did it out of guilt for leaving her alone all day with Gaara. Perhaps he held the hope that these little gestures would give her something to dwell on besides the perpetual stress that came with tending to an unstable seventeen-year-old.

His gestures helped a little. She watched the movies. She read the books. She cleaned till the house retained the sterile air of a hospital. She paced till the varnish on the floorboards wore away. She went so far as to study some of the botany books she got from the library.

These little inconsequential activities worked to stave off her restlessness and boredom for about a month, but there was a distinct sense of discontentment in the house, a look of visible strain on her features each time she looked in the mirror.

Gaara may have been able to endure months indoors at a time, but she found herself succumbing to a subtle, restrained sort of depression. But Temari had never been one for outward, obnoxious displays of emotion and her discontent manifested as nothing more than a stony expression and a chronic state of restlessness.

Her time indoors had also given her time and room to think of things—ideas, philosophies, conclusions about life—things that most people her age didn't even entertain of their own volition. This was an age meant for meeting people, travelling, learning, forming relationships—friendships or otherwise.

But she was incapable of thinking of those things, incapable of seeing herself partaking in the groups and talks and normalcy that dominated her surroundings at college. A part of her realized there was something wrong with her when she couldn't picture herself beyond the reality she knew now. She was practical, shrewd, and logical to an extent that almost made her miserly in regards to entertaining dreams and fantasies.

At one point, while doing the dishes, she found herself planning out what to do for funeral arrangements and her brothers' college funds if she kicked the bucket in the near future.

Kankuro reacted with disbelief and called her morbid when she mentioned it.

In rebuttal, she called herself open-minded.

After all, death seemed to be a trend in her family. First her mother went, then her uncle, then her grandmother, and then her father, all within fifteen years. She was as good as next.

Besides, it never hurt to be prepared.

Despite this, Temari knew there had to be something beyond contemplating morbid thoughts of her own death to keep her mind occupied, at least in a healthy way. She just didn't know _what_.

She wrote out the cheque for the property tax bill and checked her balance through the bank's website, satisfied with the remaining amount. She checked her e-mail, deleting the spam and reading through the notice sent by her college registrar. She read the news headlines, expression unchanging at the mention of several casualties in the war overseas.

That was one thing she didn't bother thinking about; war was a constant state of affairs in the world and it always would be, and trying to discern the who, what, where, when, and why aspects of a campaign notorious for bending truths and crafting cover-ups was something she didn't have the patience for. It was strange how one's own personal turmoil and sphere of hell could make something like a war seem superfluous.

She left the news site and checked her library account. Two of the botany books she'd placed on hold had finally come in.

"Temari."

She turned in her seat, smiling slightly at Gaara as he blinked drowsily at her from the living room entrance.

"Hey, how'd you sleep?" she asked. "Good?"

He stared at some point on the ground before nodding once, reaching up to rub his forehead.

"Good," she said, inwardly relieved. "Remind me to tell the doctor to renew your prescription. You hungry?"

He nodded again and she gladly stood up and made her way into the kitchen. Making breakfast and serving it was something she'd never done for Kankuro, as she'd always viewed it as a surefire way to spoil him.

But with Gaara, she did it willingly, if only to give herself something to occupy herself with before he disappeared back into his room and left her alone for the rest of the day.

He sat down at the table as she took out bread and eggs, putting the frying pan on the stove.

"When will Kankuro be home?" Gaara asked without looking up.

"Around six," she answered over her shoulder, carefully cracking an egg into the pan. "He asked if you wanted anything."

"No."

"You can ask if you want, Gaara. It's no big deal."

He didn't answer her. After a few minutes of silence, she flipped the egg onto a plate and took the bread out of the toaster to butter it.

"Do you have plans today?" Gaara suddenly asked, the question sounding awkward.

Temari raised her head in surprise, pausing before speaking.

"Well, I do have some books waiting for me at the library. But I've still got a week before—"

"Don't," Gaara muttered.

She blinked. "Don't what?"

"I'll…" he paused, fists clenching on his knees. "I'll come with you. Don't stay home because of me."

She stared at him, blank with surprise.

There was another moment of silence, and the turmoil was clear in his expression as he finally spoke.

"I don't…hear it as much anymore. The voice."

"Gaara," she began falteringly, stopping when he raised his head to look at her, words leaving him with obvious difficulty.

"You shouldn't suffer because of me."

Temari couldn't think of a response, gazing at him wordlessly as she gripped the butter knife. Though it wasn't evident in his voice, the guilt was obviously there, and the thought of him blaming himself for something beyond his control elicited a displaced sense of anger at herself.

She forced a smile, lowering her eyes to the bread.

"I'm not suffering," she finally replied with a faint chuckle.

The knife eventually stilled when she felt him staring at her intently. Disregarding the unsettled feeling, she filled a glass with milk and put the breakfast in front of him. When he didn't move, she met his gaze.

"Yes, you are," he said quietly.

"…we'll leave in half an hour," she said after a moment's silence. When he nodded, she turned and left the kitchen, grateful he couldn't see the lump rising in her throat.

* * *

The sunlight was disorienting when she stepped out of the house and even more so for Gaara as he tugged a hood over his head, lowering his eyes from the bright glare. It was almost obscene in its brightness against his pale skin, and she quickly let him into the car before he decided to change his mind.

They rode in silence, Temari taking the time to enjoy the breeze coming in through the window.

Gaara had sunk low in his seat, peering through the window at the passing scenery until they pulled into the parking lot, at which point Temari paused to look at him.

"You can grab some books, too, if you want. I'll put it on my card."

He merely nodded and got out of the car, trailing after her as she entered the building and made a beeline for the holds section.

They spent the first good half of an hour browsing the shelves, spending the other half seated in one of the reading rooms looking through magazines. Temari glanced up every now and then to make sure Gaara was comfortable, pleased to see him absorbed in one of the books he'd chosen.

"Wanna go home now?" she asked after a while, cracking her neck with a satisfied wince. "I better get dinner started."

He merely stood up and collected his books, following her to the checkout station. The librarian sitting there gave her a smile, scanning the books through as Temari let her gaze wander. Pamphlets were arranged on the counter along with recommended reading lists. Next to the counter was a bulletin board, tacked with various announcements and program advertisements.

She read them for the sake of reading them, never one to participate in community programs and the like. But a yellow sheet of paper obscured by a schedule of kids' shows caught her attention. She reached forward and brushed the foremost paper out of the way, reading the bold text.

_Support Our Troops. Write A Soldier._

She didn't realize that she'd read it out loud till the librarian spoke.

"There aren't enough people doing that," she commented offhandedly, setting the receipt on top of the books. "Writing letters, I mean. Especially since e-mail's taken over."

Temari was sure that Chiyo would still be writing her if she was alive, but nodded to show she was listening.

"There's nothing wrong with that, of course," the woman continued, pushing up her glasses. "But it makes you sorry for those soldiers. Not many computers over there, I'd imagine."

"Do you write to one?" Temari inquired, not without some genuine curiosity.

"I do," she replied, smiling. "It's one of the best feelings in the world, when you get a reply and know you've made someone feel less alone."

"Hm," Temari offered noncommittally, handing off half the books to Gaara. "Sounds nice."

The librarian paused, eyeing her for a moment before reaching into her drawer and withdrawing the same sheet of paper attached to the board, putting it on the pile of books.

"Give it a shot," she added when Temari raised an eyebrow. "Or at least, look into it. It really does make a difference to the soldier, whether you support the war or not."

Temari slowly took the pile of books, looking down at the yellow paper. The librarian was watching her expectantly, and Temari glanced askance at her before turning to leave.

"I'll think about it."

* * *

Dinner came and went without incidence. Kankuro arrived just as she was serving it, visibly pleased to see Gaara out of his room and taking the time to eat with them at the table.

It was one of the rare moments of the day where she would cease to think and simply enjoy time with her family for as long as it lasted, snickering into her food at the stories Kankuro related about his job at the video rental store.

All too soon it would be over, with Gaara heading back to his room and Kankuro retiring to the living room to watch TV, too tired to carry a conversation.

Temari left him there, heading back to her room with the intent to start one of the novels she'd grabbed from the library. As she passed Gaara's room, she paused outside it long enough to look through the crack in the door and see him sitting up against his headboard, engrossed in what he was reading.

Smiling faintly, she continued on to her room, taking her hair out of her pigtails and changing into her pajamas. She grabbed the pile of books and sank down against the pillows, taking the topmost novel.

It was a crime thriller, supposedly un-put-down-able if the laudatory remarks on the back cover were anything to go by. She read for half an hour, making it to the third chapter when she realized she was starting to read the same sentence repeatedly.

The periods of restlessness and disgruntlement crept in at odd intervals, eliciting detachment and an irritated feeling she couldn't place, as if she was forgetting something important. It was happening now, and she could tell no amount of tossing and turning and fluffing of pillows would stem her discomfort.

Annoyed, she sat up and shoved the book in a drawer, dropping the rest on the floor and feeling her irritation grow when they toppled over the carpet.

As she reached down to gather them, the yellow sheet of paper the librarian had given her slipped out from between two of the books. Without thinking, she grabbed it and sat up, re-reading the bold text on it. Beneath that was more sentimental spiel she couldn't bother herself with, and at the very bottom, a P.O. Box address to a country overseas.

She bit her lip and was still in the process of deciding what to do when she withdrew a loose sheaf of line paper and a clipboard from her desk drawer, plucking a pen from her school bag.

Before she knew it, she was sitting up with the clipboard poised in her lap, pen uncapped and hovering over the first line of the sheet.

The tip pressed onto the paper, and as the black ink bled into the surrounding whiteness, she mechanically moved the pen.

_To Whom It May Concern,_

She paused again, pen skipping over a line to start next to the margin. The words came to her uninhibitedly, scrolling through her mind as though she was writing the letter to herself.

_I don't exactly know why I'm writing this letter. I don't have any real reason to. I don't watch the news. I don't know anyone in the army. I'm doing it on a whim because someone recommended it and it's just something to do. Along with giving me something to occupy my time with, I guess this letter might also serve its purpose and make you feel less alone._

_I don't know what I'm supposed to say, considering I don't know you from Adam. So I guess that means I should start with the basics._

_My name is Temari. I'm twenty years old. I major in botany at the local university and my goal is to teach a particular branch of it some day. I have two younger siblings, Kankuro and Gaara (19 and 17), and I've been raising them ever since my grandmother passed away two years ago. _

She paused and stared expressionlessly down at the paper, hardly aware of what she was writing and letting the words spill out, oblivious to their growing candidness.

_I suppose you could call us orphans, what with my mother dying when I was three and my father getting killed after my grandmother died. Shot in the head, if you were wondering. He owed the mob some money, but you know how criminals are—they aren't exactly renowned for being on time with payments and the like._

_This leaves me with a legacy I'd rather not have, but I've never been a complainer. I put up with it. My brothers, however, are decent people. The youngest, Gaara, has some psychological problems, but besides that, we're a relatively normal family and I'm a relatively normal person. _

_My hobbies coincide with my major. I enjoy studying plants and cultivating my own vegetables. I have a garden I keep in the backyard. My favourite food is vegetable soup, but that shouldn't be a surprise. I also like roasted chestnuts. I hate squid and octopus. I'm not known for my cooking skills, but I make do with what I have and at least I can say my food is edible. As far as my other hobbies go, I don't have many more. I enjoy reading, usually mystery and crime novels. I can't look at harlequin romance novels without laughing. _

_If I were to delve deeper, I guess you could say I'm a family person and the type to like a bad movie if there's someone there with me to make fun of it. I am not a flighty, dreamy, illogical sort of person. The opposite, in fact, although my musical tastes don't reflect my personality. I have a thing for 60's love songs. Why I like them, I have no idea. Considering how I just said I'm not a flighty, dreamy person, your guess is as good as mine._

_I like the types of conversations that make you think and have little patience for meaningless spiel and gossip. I don't like conformity, either. Not to say I'm one of those people who dye my hair ridiculous colours or wear outrageous clothes, but I am independent in everything I do and say. I'm outspoken. I like being challenged. _

_You should know, before I continue any further, that I know nothing about this war you're in and why it's being fought. No offence, but there are enough complexities in my life without taking on the stress that comes with worrying about something beyond my control. On that note, don't expect me to discuss the state of affairs regarding that or politics. Not to belittle your predicament, but the news as a whole, besides being annoying, is depressing. And I don't need that._

_There are many other random things I could say, so I'll just list them because it's just easier that way: my favourite colour is purple. My favourite animal is the ferret. My favourite season is autumn. I was born on August 23rd. This makes me a Virgo, if you're into that sort of thing. I'm allergic to dogs. I hate it when it rains. I like scented candles. I was arrested for battery when I was sixteen (for beating one of my brother's bullies—got away with it in the end. I suppose having a criminal for a father had its perks). I've been told I have a temper. I've worked in a bookstore, supermarket, and car wash throughout my life. I've been bored out of my mind for the last 30 days. I don't take well to confinement. I would like to travel one day. I have a fear of snakes. I love pineapples. I don't like jewelry. My worst subjects in high school were art and drama. I enjoy watching documentaries on almost any topic. I plan ahead. I like receiving letters._

_The latter I like because I had a ten-year correspondence going with my grandmother. I think it would have been easier to just type this out and print it, but I admit—and this is pretty much the only sentimental thing I'm guilty of—a letter written in a person's own hand is a lot more personable and meaningful than something typed out on a computer. _

_Anyway, I think I've said everything I can at the moment. Depending on if this actually works out and I mail it and you respond, we can both get something out of it. You'll feel less alone if that's your problem, I don't know, and I'll have something to occupy myself with. _

_So yeah. I'm done._

_- Temari_

The pen lingered on the paper, leaving a dark blot before she blinked herself out of her reverie and lifted her head to look at how much she'd written. It far exceeded what she'd expected when she'd first taken the pen to it, but reading it over, she realized she'd said more than she'd anticipated herself saying to a complete stranger.

For some reason, that didn't bother her at all. She felt…lighter, for lack of a better term, slightly invigorated after venting out her restlessness on the paper.

She opened her drawer again, fishing out a box of envelopes. She folded the letter in half and tucked it inside one, sealing it and labeling the front with the address and her return address in the top left corner. Once she'd done that, she pulled back and looked at it, holding it in both hands critically.

The envelope was plain, rectangular, and non-descript. It would easily get lost in the slew of mail, and a pessimistic part of her envisioned it being left at the bottom of the pile, or being discarded after being mistaken for a bill.

The way she'd written the address, in her small, neat, mechanical script, gave it a colder, more formal feel than she liked. After a moment of hesitation, she uncapped the pen again, pressing the tip above the address. It slowly scratched across the surface of the paper.

_To:_

She bit her lip, then let the pen follow a flow of words that seemed to stream from her mind of their own accord.

_Whoever No One Else Writes To._

Temari eyed it for a little while longer, fingertips pressing into the envelope and feeling the bulk of the paper and the words tucked inside. A part of her was vaguely alarmed at the thought of sending this brief, candid autobiography to a complete stranger on the other side of the world, yet another part of her felt relieved. Satisfied, even.

The clock read 10:12 PM when she glanced at it, and suddenly realizing how much her eyes itched with tiredness, she dumped the letter and writing utensils onto her table, turning off the light and sagging into bed.

She fell asleep before she could contemplate what she'd done, and the next morning, gave the letter to Kankuro to post via express mail without a second thought. It went out on June 13th.

A reply wasn't guaranteed. In fact, it was unlikely.

But still, for the next week, she'd spend a good part of her mornings reprimanding herself for the anticipation she felt every time the mailman crossed the lawn.

* * *

_June 17__th__. P.O Box 1134._

"Yue?"

"Here."

The first lieutenant stood on the centre of his bed, still decked out in his dust and mud-covered uniform, and reached into the sack like some decrepit version of Santa Claus before tossing a package to the man reclining on his bed a few feet away.

"Kubo?"

"Yo."

Another package was tossed to the other side of the room.

Most of the men sat upright in their beds, just returned from the field and still dressed in army fatigue. They were dirty and weary but still watched the soldier distributing the mail attentively, hoping their eagerness didn't show on their faces as they waited for their names to be called.

"Eiji?"

"_Score!_"

Chuckles broke out around the room as the joyful soldier leapt up for his care package.

It continued on in that manner until the sack was virtually empty. Some of the soldiers sagged back onto their beds in disappointment, averting envious gazes from the ones who sorted through the items and letters they'd received.

A moment later, raucous laughter broke out.

"Hey, hey, there's one here that says _To: Whoever No One Else Writes To._"

"You're shitting me."

"I swear to God—hey, I think I know who it's for."

There was more laughter, this time interspersed with whispering and snickers.

"Hey, Hidan!"

A hush fell over the room almost instantly, the others falling silent to glance amusedly, and some scathingly, over to the man sprawled over his bed near the back with his bible raised in front of his face. Unlike the others, he looked perfectly clean and was clad in a simple white beater and cargo pants. He was also the only one in the room with a full head of hair. Had it not been for the two dog tags draped around his neck, one could have easily mistaken him for being in the wrong place.

He lowered his book, looking unperturbed by the stares and glancing apathetically over at the front of the room.

"What the hell do you want?"

"You've got mail."

Hidan lowered his bible completely, expression unchanging as they broke into laughter again.

"For real," Kubo added, grabbing the letter and strolling up to his bed. "Can't belong to anybody else here."

Hidan gave him a blithe look. "You either get out of my face or I'm shoving my foot up your ass."

"But I'm serious. You've got a letter."

"Piss off."

"Okay, come on," Kubo said cajolingly, looking a bit miffed. "Just take it. Better than nothing—we all know your own mother wouldn't even write to you."

"My ma's dead, you fuckwit."

"Tch, fine."

Annoyed that he hadn't taken the bait, the soldier tossed the letter onto the bed and walked back to the other side of the room. The disappointment at the lack of a reaction was palpable, but eventually, the room returned to its bustle of noise and conversation and soon they were ignoring him again.

Once he felt the eyes fall away from him, Hidan lowered his bible once more, narrowing his eyes at the letter next to his leg. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he reached for it, bringing it closer to read.

The writing was small and neat. Definitely a girl's. And it was addressed to:

_Whoever No One Else Writes To._

Hidan rolled his eyes, casting a black look across the room at Kubo before tearing the envelope open, withdrawing two folded sheets of paper filled with more of that small, neat writing.

He glanced around once more before settling back against the wall, raising the letter to read.

The noise in the room gradually faded into a mere hum in the back of his mind once he got past the first paragraph, the furrow in his brow gradually receding as he sunk lower against his pillow.

_My favourite food is vegetable soup…I hate squid and octopus._

His expression contorted into one torn between faint amusement and bewilderment, a smirk twitching at the corners of his lips as he read on.

_I was arrested for battery when I was sixteen._

He stopped for a moment, read the sentence again, and felt the smirk widen into a grin.

_Depending on if this actually works out and I mail it and you respond, we can both get something out of it. You'll feel less alone if that's your problem, I don't know, and I'll have something to occupy myself with. _

_So yeah. I'm done._

_- Temari_

Without realizing it, he picked up the first page and read the letter again. Then he read it once more, the words sinking deeper with each subsequent read.

Eventually, shaking his head in amusement and perplexity at the sheer oddness and wry tone of the letter, Hidan stuffed it back into the envelope, shoving it under his mattress. He picked up his bible again, arm coming to rest behind his head as he neared the end of the verse.

A few minutes passed and he found it confusing as to why it was so difficult to keep the small, lazy grin off his face as he accidentally kept re-reading the same line about demons disemboweling sinners. Weird, especially since this was his favourite verse in the whole bible.

After a while, he gave up, lowering the book and pressing his lips to the cover before putting it back in his bag. The noise of conversation continued on without him as he laid back and observed the ceiling of the room through half-lidded eyes.

The noise would continue for at least an hour more, with lights-out scheduled for 9:00 PM.

He drummed his fingers against the metal bed frame, mind drifting back to the bizarre letter he'd just read. Inwardly, he wondered what the hell had compelled this girl, Temari, to write overseas to a soldier she didn't know and for a reason as dull as keeping herself busy.

She sure as hell didn't sound like she gave a shit about what he was doing or how he was faring, and ironically, the letter was supposed to help him feel better. Pfft.

He continued drumming his fingers. At five past eight, he stopped and abruptly sat up, glancing over in Kubo's direction.

"Hey, douchebag."

Hidan had to grin at the fact that the idiot actually looked up.

"Pass me a pen."

* * *

_June 25__th__. 32 Suna Ave._

"If we won the lottery, what's the first thing you'd buy?"

Temari smirked at Kankuro's question, removing the dishes from the dishwasher with deliberate slowness, as if contemplating her answer.

"Well," she said thoughtfully. "First, I'd probably put away some money for yours and Gaara's college funds. Then pay off my loans. Invest the rest."

Kankuro shot her a disgusted look.

"_Invest it_? You're like…a freakin' 45-year-old miser in a girl's body. Live a little, damn it. What would you really get?"

Temari laughed, shutting the dishwasher door before turning to look at him.

"Honestly? A new car. I'm sick of that piece of junk in the driveway."

Kankuro grinned, obviously pleased by her answer.

"What kind of car?"

"Something small and fuel-efficient, probably. Like one of those Mini Coopers."

She laughed again when he slapped his forehead in exasperation before getting up, striding past her.

"You're hopeless."

"And you're delusional."

He made a noise halfway between amusement and contempt from somewhere in the living room. A moment later, she heard him open the front door. There was the rattle of his knuckles against the metal interior of the mailbox.

"Anything?" Temari called back over her shoulder.

"Bill, bill, charity, flyer, letter for you, bill—"

"What?" Temari straightened, turning to look at him as he strode back into the kitchen, still shuffling through the mail as he held a plain white envelope out to her.

She took it from him, a calm sort of disbelief growing inside of her despite her nonchalant expression as she took in the address. If the stamp denoting the letter as international mail still left any room for doubt, the P.O. Box in the top left corner erased it. She'd gotten a reply.

"I'll be in my room," she reminded Kankuro, brushing past him and heading down the hall.

A part of her vehemently tried to deny that the odd, unsettling feeling she got as she sat down on her bed was anticipation, even as she forced herself to slit the side of the envelope with measured slowness. She withdrew two sheets of paper, noticing that both had been torn out of a notebook.

Hardly aware that she was holding her breath, she unfolded them to read.

The first thing that stood out to her was the jagged, almost haphazard writing; the letters sloped right and left at odd intervals, as if the writer couldn't decide which direction he liked better. There were intermittent breaks in the paragraphs—random jumps to new lines that seemed to indicate him starting on a new tangent or picking up the writing at a different time. The paper was littered with scribbled-out words and lines, full of arrows leading from sentences into the side margins to add little subsidiary comments. Halfway through the letter, the ink changed from blue to red.

Temari stared at the letter for nearly a minute, blinking and wondering what she'd gotten herself into before finally settling back against the headboard to read. The writing, though resembling the serrated edge of a knife, was perfectly legible.

_Temari,_

_I haven't written a letter since I was in fourth grade, and that was to myself as punishment, FYI, because my bitch of a teacher made me do it after I pushed some kid off the jungle gym. But anyway, just thought I'd say before I seriously got into writing this thing, in case I'm doing it wrong._

_My name's Hidan. I'm a second lieutenant_, _which pretty much translates to the guy who's worth jack shit._ _That envelope you sent your letter in amused the hell out of the faggots in my platoon, I'll give you that. Handed it off to me cuz I guess I fit the bill when it comes to whoever no one else writes to. Not like I'm "offended" or anything. It's true. Don't have any family, and I sorta didn't mention I was enrolling in the army before I left._

Temari paused, eyes following the trail of tiny words that ran off into the margin.

_We're from the same city, by the way. How fucking uncanny is that?_

A faint smile flitted across her face without her noticing. She lowered her gaze to the next paragraph.

_Seriously, there are two reasons why I left, and neither have anything to do with the reason why the rest of these guys are here. You said you didn't give a shit about the war, and that's fucking __SWELL__ because I don't give a shit about the war, either (I only know half the national anthem, if that says anything). I was kinda in bad form financially before I left, and I heard the army was getting antsy and offering benefits and debt forgiveness because there weren't enough people willing to go get themselves blown up for them. So that's the first reason—I ditched cuz I needed the creditors to get off my back. _

_Second reason's more personal and it's the real reason I'm here. You wouldn't know it from looking at me, but I'm a really religious guy (Church of Jashinism—look it up). I only bothered replying to your letter because you and me are in the same boat about this whole war thing. I'm not into the whole poetic, flowery, honourary crap that comes with being in the military and in no fucking shape or form am I a patriot. So your letter kinda gave me the incentive to think you're not a judgmental bitch that'll rail on me like the rest of these bastards do for the real reason I'm even in this war._

_Last May, the shitheads in the village I'm at right now decided it'd be a good idea to bomb the shit out of a government building and with it, took out the only Jashinist church in the fucking country. Do I give a shit that the prime minister almost got his ass blown in half? No. But my church getting blown up? Like hell I'd let that slide. _

Temari paused, noticing that the writing had become even more bold and jagged, the weight used on the pen evident through the indentations she could feel against her fingertips.

_So I guess you can tell why I'm here. After all, the law sorta interferes with my right to exercise righteous fury on their asses. They'd call it murder and I hear prison sucks, so that option was out. But it's funny, isn't it, when it stops being murder once you put on the uniform. It's okay once you pretend you're doing it for the homeland. But whatever, that's fine with me so long as I get my revenge._

_Still, they gave me a hard time about getting in. Those bastards wanted to cut my hair. Like hell I let that happen—they let me keep it after I volunteered to go kamikaze. And that's the real reason they let me in, and the only reason I'm still around. I'm the one-man berserker unit. Nobody else volunteered and the rest of them are dead, so I guess I'm indispensable or something if they wind up in deep shit and need me. Kinda alienating, not doing anything and being the only one around for that reason in a room full of bald fucks._

_But hey, it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. My religion is just that important to me, seriously. And really, it's like killing two birds with one stone—being dead will get me a one-way ticket to heaven __and__ get those creditors off my back. HA HA HA._

Temari stared at the_ ha ha_'s incredulously before turning to the next sheet of paper.

_Anyway, now you know why I'm here. I guess this is the part where I'm supposed to talk about myself. Writing it the way you did looks like a pain in the ass, though, so I did it my own way. (Deal with it.)_

_- 24 years old_

_- DOB: April 2nd_

_- Aries (even though that's pagan bullshit)_

_- Only child, no family_

_- If I'm still alive after this war, I'm gonna be minister of a new Jashinist church_

_- I like sweet stuff (the food here seriously sucks)_

_- I hate bitter stuff_

_- Eggplant is nasty_

_- I don't even remember what music sounds like_

_- I pray three times a day (sometimes at 4:00 AM just to piss the commander off)_

_- I'm not allergic to anything_

_- I don't get sick. Ever._

_- I collect matchbooks (so maybe that makes me a pyromaniac, hell if I know)_

_- But that doesn't mean I smoke (cuz I don't)_

_- I've been in seven car accidents, one ferry accident, and a train accident_

_- That means I have really shitty luck with transportation_

_- which means I'm just waiting for the next plane I get on to fly into a fucking mountain_

_- I was dead for two minutes on an operating table when I was 19_

_- shirts bug me, so I don't wear them_

_- I can relate on the battery charges_

_- beat the shit out of some punks who thought defacing a church was funny_

_- court sent me to a shrink _

_- that didn't work out_

_- hair care is important to me_

_- actually, hygiene as a whole is pretty damn important_

_- pessimists annoy the hell out of me_

_- I like pomegranates_

_- I don't read much besides legit religious stuff, but that John Donne guy knew his shit_

_Can't think of anything else to say. It's almost lights out. Keep writing those weird letters, huh? I need the entertainment, seriously._

_- Hidan_

When Temari finished reading, she found her face tense, realizing a moment later that she'd been smiling in a disbelieving, incredulous fashion throughout the entirety of the letter. Several minutes went by as she re-read the letter a few more times, a part of her tremendously amused at the blatant eccentricity of her new pen pal and another part slightly disconcerted. She felt the latter for obvious reasons, raising an eyebrow at the fact that he'd been arrested, sent to a psychiatrist, almost died, and was quite obviously a religious fanatic if he was willing to kill himself for his faith.

All these things would have raised a red flag at any other time or circumstance, but where was the harm in corresponding with someone thousands of miles away overseas? Besides, he seemed interesting, and if anything else, she could use the entertainment, too.

Mind made up, she put the letter aside, grabbing some loose paper and her pen again. There was no hesitation this time as she leaned forward to write.

_Hidan,_

_I generally reserve judgments about a person's character until I get to know them, but I think it's safe to say you'll be keeping the boredom at bay for a while…_


	2. Chapter 2

A Remedy for Lassitude

By: firefly

Note: Jeez, sorry about the exceptionally long wait, guys. University was a time-consuming monster. But anyway, here's chapter two, which means there's one left to go. :D

Thank you to everyone who reviewed. You guys are awesome.

* * *

And none will hear the postman's knock  
Without a quickening of the heart.  
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?  
—W.H. Auden

A Remedy for Lassitude ch.2

_July 2__nd__._

_I know you don't take any of the horoscope stuff seriously, but it's fun to read once in a while to see what you get. Wouldn't hurt to ruminate on some advice, right? So here, for Aries's upcoming week: _Take life a little more slowly—rushing doesn't work for you. If you can just relax and put off big projects for a little while, you should be able to recharge and get more out of life.

_July 8__th__._

_What the hell does THAT mean? I've been holed up in this shitty little camp for a year. How much slower am I supposed to go? Unless by 'big projects' this thing is talking about a potential kamikaze mission, which would make a hell of a lot more sense. Not being in a rush to get blown to pieces should definitely help me get more out of life._

_July 16__th__._

_You are the most morbid person I've ever—well, I guess I can't use the word 'met,' but you know what I mean. There is no guarantee that you'll be chosen to carry out a suicide mission, so don't be so eager to die. Besides, didn't you say you wanted to be a minister? _

_July 24__th__._

_It comes with the job description. And you're right. There is no guarantee about the mission. But it's all I've got going for me, because seriously, the whole minister thing? From here, it's all starting to look like a fucking pipe dream._

* * *

Hidan shifted, pausing his writing to shake his wrist and get the circulation going. The sand was frigid through the thin material of his pants, appearing purple beneath the glow of the fluorescent floodlight overhead. In the area surrounding the base, the air was perfectly still, not a breath of wind tangible in the chill night.

Next to him, Kubo released a loud, impatient sigh and glared back at the dark outline of the camp.

They were straddling the enemy line, hidden behind a five-foot wall of sandbags and flanked by parched shrubbery and the trenches left from the last battle. Guard duty wasn't exactly a glamourous assignment, but it was the only kind deemed safe enough for the last remaining berserker. Besides, Hidan had volunteered, more than happy to escape the stifling enclosure of the camp, not to mention have a place to finish that letter he'd started a few days prior.

_Still_, the Jashinist groused inwardly, stopping his writing long enough to glare at Kubo. _Making this bastard come with me was a bitch move._

"Is this what we're gonna be stuck doing the rest of the night?" Kubo suddenly burst out, punching the sandbags. "I didn't sign up for this shit."

Hidan stopped writing again, barely restraining himself from stabbing the pen into the soldier's thigh.

"Seriously, dumbass, sit down and keep your damn head out of the light. It's bad enough I've gotta keep watch with you—last thing I need is getting spotted."

"What's it to you?" Kubo sneered. "Just shut up and keep on writing to your mama."

"My ma is _dead_, dipshit."

Kubo merely snorted and turned away.

Hidan took a deep breath, momentarily closing his eyes to quell the urge to murder before returning his attention to the stack of papers in his hand. This letter had been nearly a week in progress, the content resembling sporadic diary entries more than a formal correspondence. He'd never been one to have the patience or inclination to keep up with this sort of thing, but as time passed, he found that receiving and writing the letters were gradually becoming the only things keeping him from losing his mind.

The captain was saving him for something big, he knew that. He'd been saving him for that special something for nearly a year, refusing to let him join the troops for field duty and keeping him restricted to the parameters surrounding the base.

There were only so many times one could re-read the bible and do laps before cabin fever settled in, so the correspondence he had going for the past two months was a welcomed reprieve.

She was an interesting character, he'd decided. Once her letters lost their mechanical, guarded edge and formality, they were actually entertaining to read, becoming vital coping mechanisms when the effects of his confinement became too great.

Their exchanges, too, had gradually developed a specific style suited to the frequency of their correspondence; rather than undergo the tedious process of paraphrasing parts of each other's letters to formulate a reply, they'd taken to simply quoting certain passages that stood out or warranted a direct response. The quote would be written out and a reply would follow. That way, it was almost like a real conversation. Almost.

Hidan returned his attention to the letter, pen hovering above the paper for a moment before descending to write again.

_You know, it's moments like these I sorta regret joining the army. I'm on guard duty right now and the douche they sent with me is gonna get fucking killed, I just know it. It's cold and I'm tired and my ass is numb from sitting on rocks. Seriously, if it wasn't for the whole vengeance thing I would've ditched this place a long time ago._

_The only thing keeping me from going batshit is praying and writing to you, sad as that sounds, but even praying is hard to do around here. Most of the time I'm inside the camp running drills so I've got no way of knowing what the damn time is. Would it kill them to give me a watch? But I guess they've got their reasons—most of us are gonna die anyway._

He paused long enough to withdraw a fresh piece of paper, pen lingering at the margin before resignedly continuing his train of thought.

_But like I said, dying is no big deal. At least it'd be better than _

The pen stilled when a muffled thump suddenly resounded above Hidan's head. A moment later, sand came tricking down into his hair and scattering over the letter. He blinked, expression immediately contorting into a scowl as he raised his head to look at Kubo.

"Okay, now what the hell are you—"

Then the second impact hit and the ensuing spurt of blood was like a slap in the face, cutting off the rest of his words as it exploded across his skin and clothes along with bits of what resembled bloodied scrambled eggs. Hidan gaped, pen and paper frozen in hand, not realizing what had happened until the soldier collapsed in a heap with a gaping gunshot wound in his skull.

A fraction of a second later, a small, dark object arched over the sandbags and hit the ground with a light thump near the body.

Hidan stared at it for a moment, then a heartbeat later dropped everything as he scrambled to his feet and practically flung himself into a mad dash towards the camp, only to abruptly halt midway with a half-panicked, half-furious hiss of "shit!" when he realized he'd forgotten the letter.

He stumbled back for it, and when it dawned on him midway that he wouldn't be able to get away in time, he swiped up the sheets, took a running leap, and threw himself into one of the nearby trenches when the grenade exploded.

* * *

"Have a good day, Gaara."

Temari smiled when her brother glanced back over his shoulder to look at the car, raising his arm to give a little wave before turning towards the school. She watched him from where she was parked as he melded into the crowd of students gathering at the school's entrance. It was only when he'd disappeared inside that she reluctantly pulled away from the curb and headed towards her university.

It was his second week back at school after six months of absence. Although she still occasionally found herself guilty of fretting over him, he'd improved so much over the summer that even she was beginning to think her worries were unfounded. Besides, he'd been the one to suggest returning to school and initiative was an optimistic sign of recovery.

The thought was comforting as she pulled into her university's parking lot. Her first class was Plant Structure and Development, and then she would have an hour-long break before her remaining two classes.

Temari couldn't help but grin a little in anticipation of opening that familiar envelope with that haphazard scrawl. She'd grabbed it from the mailbox on her way out of the house so it would be a nice change of pace to read it instead of a biology textbook during break. Judging from the bulk of the envelope, it was a long letter.

Their correspondence had spanned two months since she'd sent her first letter and Temari could safely say she'd never been so amused, intrigued, and intimidated by a person in her entire life.

He cursed as if he'd been educated in it. His blasé attitude towards everything most people held dear was bewildering. He had a bizarre fascination with death yet somehow managed to come off as the complete opposite of a brooding weirdo.

Temari had an inkling that he was completely aware of how absolutely insane he must have sounded to her, but nonetheless was completely unabashed in who he was. It was refreshing, for lack of a better term, and she found herself unable to fight the temptation of pulling out the letter a little early midway through her first class when the professor turned his back towards the students.

Nobody noticed when she slit the envelope open in her lap, all the while keeping her gaze at the front of the class in case the professor turned around. Deftly, she removed the bundle of folded sheets and drew them up slightly to read.

She chanced one more glance at the professor and lowered her gaze to the sheets in her hand, only to gasp out loud.

A girl sitting to the left of her glanced in her direction, eyes widening when she saw the blood-splattered sheets of paper.

Temari stared at the discoloured stationary, momentarily dumbstruck before quickly shoving them out of sight into the desk, attempting to ignore the gaping girl to the left of her. She waited till the girl eventually looked away, awkwardly shifting in her seat to make sure no one could see the paper as she drew them out again.

There were about ten pages or so, all speckled with dull, brownish red stains. But the last one was the worst; it looked as though someone had hemorrhaged over it. Fighting back a grimace, Temari pulled up the first page to read.

_Temari,_

_I'm not dead. Thought I should let you know in case you were wondering, even though from the looks of your letters it doesn't really seem like you give a shit about me all that much, but hey, whatever passes the time. Maybe I'll grow on you, eh? Then you can send me a box of cookies so I don't kill myself the next time they give me a frozen eggplant Panini. _

_Anyway, I'm thinking that maybe we're getting somewhere with finding the guy behind this whole mess (AKA the guy responsible for blowing up my church). His name's Manzo Heki. If you watched the news, you'd know that, since he's on the most wanted list and all, but whatever. All you need to know is that he's the main target and that I'm gonna kill him. _

_The more I think about it, the more I like the idea of just ending it like that. Think of it: an eternity of bliss. No pain, no sickness—and all the damn cake I want. Why cake? Because that's my version of heaven. I like to think heaven will be what you want it to be. Makes the idea of dying seem worth it. Like, you and your whole obsession with vegetables and shit? Picture you in heaven with a greenhouse the size of a fucking football field. Nice, isn't it? You could probably benefit from a little spirituality in your life. Your first letters made you sound like a depressed robot._

Despite herself, Temari smiled.

As the professor droned on, she made her way through the rest of the letter, finding it to be a composite of bits and pieces he wrote whenever he got the chance; mostly complaints, ramblings about his religion, doodles of a symbol he indicated was representative of Jashin, arrows leading from sentences detailing his frustration with his confinement to a graphic stick figure drawing of himself bashing his brains out against the margin, and some background information concerning his position, which she read with increased interest.

_There were originally six of us in the berserker unit when I enlisted last year. It's not exactly something you try out for—we were all handpicked by the general (AKA Pain—what a retarded name, eh?). Met a guy named Deidara when the team was drafted up. Crazy as shit, that guy, but he was all right because he wasn't in the war for the same reason everyone else was, either. He was always spouting some crap about art I didn't get, but yeah, he got specialized training for the air force, took out twelve insurgent encampments, then packed his jet full of enough explosives to take out a fucking mountain and flew it right into one of their ships. Went out with a bang, just like he wanted. Too bad I never got a chance to convert him. He would have loved Jashinism._

_The other guys I didn't get to know so much. Kisame joined the naval fleet so I don't know if he's still alive. Sasori bit it out in the field. Itachi took out 43 guys by himself before some blood disease got to him. The last guy, Zetsu, he got drafted for espionage—don't know what happened to him. Now I'm the only one left._

_Captain's saving me for something big. It's the only reason that explains why he won't let me leave the fucking base or do field duty. Asshole needs his precious little berserker in good condition. I'd be touched if I didn't already know he doesn't give a flying fuck about me. But at least I got him to give me guard duty for tonight._

The next page, she realized after reading it, must have been written during said guard duty, and it ended abruptly with the presence of the giant blood splatter. Despite the blood, she could make out the large, furious words he'd scrawled over it with permanent black marker. Her expression gradually grew aghast as she realized where, and who, the blood had come from.

_I TOLD THAT FUCKING IDIOT TO SIT HIS ASS DOWN BUT THE MOTHERFUCKER DIDN'T LISTEN AND GOT HIS GODDAMNED HEAD BLOWN OFF AND NOW THERE'S BRAINS AND SHIT IN MY HAIR GODDAMN IT _

_AND THIS LETTER IS FUCKED TO HIGH HELL BUT I DON'T GIVE A SHIT THERE'S NO WAY I'M WRITING THIS ALL OUT AGAIN_

Temari stared at it blankly for nearly a minute, then lifted her head when she felt herself being stared at; the girl to her left was gawking at her and the blood-splattered letter again with a visibly frightened look on her face.

Temari somehow managed a faltering smile before stuffing the letter back into the envelope and burying her face behind her textbook.

* * *

_September 12th._

_You almost gave me a heart attack. A little warning would have been nice, you know. Maybe a "hey Temari, just so you know, the letter's soaked in BLOOD" on the back of the envelope or something like that. I honestly thought it was yours._

_September 19__th__._

_Aww, you thought it was mine? Were you worried? I'm touched, seriously. But what the fuck was I supposed to do—write it all out again? Like hell. Paper's kinda hard to come by over here. (Ha ha ha I wish I could've seen your face.)_

_September 27__th__._

_(I think horror and disgust sum up my reaction succinctly enough.) If paper is so hard to come by, then how about I send you some personalized stationary? I'll make it something pretty and uplifting. How does Hello Kitty stationary sound to you?_

_October 4__th__._

_Hello Kitty stationary sounds like I should take better care of the paper I have._

* * *

It was a mistake on Temari's part to misinterpret Gaara's penchant for silence as an indicator for apathy.

Her youngest brother was far more perceptive than she gave him credit for. She was oblivious to his curious stares and meditative expressions whenever he was around her and it wasn't until he pointed out emerging nuances that she realized writing to a certain pen pal had inadvertent side effects.

"Stupid…goddamn…piece of _shit_."

Temari gave her shopping cart a good kick to dislodge it from a crevice in the asphalt. The wheels squeaked in protest as the cart was extracted and Gaara shot a bemused glance at his sister as he followed her into the supermarket.

"You've been cursing a lot recently," he stated.

Temari threw him a surprised look from where she was browsing through shampoos and conditioners. "Come on. It's not like you haven't heard me swear before."

Gaara cracked a small, wispy smile. "Not so fluently."

Temari grinned in return and then held up two (rather expensive) shampoo brands to scrutinize. Gaara did not miss her muttered words.

"…idiot didn't specify which kind to use."

"What?"

"Nothing," Temari said distractedly, eventually settling on the pomegranate and soy shampoo. "A friend recommended it."

Gaara trailed after her as she leisurely picked out the rest of the items on her shopping list, including his favourite brand of coffee. As Gaara filled his bag with the fresh coffee beans, Temari wandered further up the aisle and slowed to a stop.

When he caught up to her, he noticed her musing over a shelf of cookies. It was odd, especially since Temari knew which kind Kankuro liked and would usually grab it without dawdling. But now she simply stood there, gazing at the boxes with a peculiar expression on her face. She almost looked amused.

"Temari," Gaara prompted, raising an eyebrow.

"Everyone loves chocolate chip, right?" she asked suddenly.

Gaara blinked, about to answer when she reached forward and grabbed a box of chocolate chip cookies along with Kankuro's Oreos. Dropping both cartons into the shopping cart, she idly continued on, oblivious to the fact that as she shopped, she smiled periodically at nothing, her expression seeming to convey recollections of something funny.

Gaara watched wonderingly, torn between wanting to be glad for her happiness, wherever it was stemming from, and wanting to know what was causing it. In the end, as they left the supermarket and piled the groceries into the car trunk, he settled for another observatory remark.

"You're smiling a lot lately, too."

Temari looked perplexed at the comment, peering thoughtfully at her reflection in the rearview mirror as she started the car. "Don't I do that normally?"

_Not so readily_, Gaara thought, biting his tongue.

"You look happier," he said instead, watching her contemplatively as she pulled onto the road. "You look…less worried."

Temari didn't reply for several moments, staring thoughtfully out at the traffic; the cars were bumper to bumper for as far as she could see and in the back of her mind she realized she would be late in getting dinner started and subsequently late in doing the laundry. Where the circumstances would have once provoked stress, there was only comfortable serenity. She turned her head and gave Gaara a faint smile.

"I am happier."

She turned her gaze back to the road, adding as an afterthought, "Life is too short to spend worrying, anyway."

* * *

"Eggplant," Hidan mumbled under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut. "I fucking _hate_ eggplant."

Yue stood next to him, torn between looking amused and exasperated as the Jashinist sat with his head between his knees, struggling not to dry heave.

"Hidan, you have to sign this," he said for the third time, rubbing his forehead as the silver-haired man produced a muffled gagging noise. "For God's sake, it was just a sandwich!"

"I _hate_ eggplant," Hidan reiterated through gritted teeth, perspiring in the effort to hold back the disgusting Panini that constituted dinner. "And sign what? Never had to sign for mail before."

"Yes, well, you never got a package before."

Hidan opened his eyes, forgetting his nausea long enough to raise his head and look at what the weary soldier was holding. It was a box. A rather large box with his name on it.

Yue gratefully left after Hidan straightened and signed for the package, sitting up now with the box in his lap. It was rather pathetic, he had to admit in retrospect, the sheer amount of anticipation he felt in those few seconds spent examining the box, attempting to prolong this moment—this break from monotony for as long as he could.

It didn't take long for him to give in to curiousity and a moment later he was running the tip of his bowie knife through the seal in the box, pulling it open and digging through the layer of Styrofoam peanuts. His fingers came into contact with another box. When he pulled it out, his jaw dropped.

Chocolate chip cookies.

He gaped at the carton for a good ten seconds, barely reigning in the urge to tear into the packaging when the presence of two more items in the box caught his attention. The first, he was bemused to discover, was a cassette tape and the last a digital watch. A note accompanied the gifts.

_My baking skills are lacking, so you better appreciate the fact I found you worth spending $4.00 on. The watch used to be my brother Kankuro's, but he doesn't wear it anymore. There's also something in there to help you remember what music sounds like again. I hope you have a cassette player over there._

He couldn't help but grin at the box of cookies, oddly flattered she did find him worth spending four dollars on. It felt especially odd that she had obliged his complaints about the watch. He spent a few minutes examining it, his expression a strange composite of surprise and gratitude. The latter nearly felt like a foreign sensation.

After familiarizing himself with the watch, setting the time, slipping it over his wrist, and eating a quarter of the cookies in the carton, he turned his attention to the cassette she'd included.

It wasn't labeled, nor was it new. What must have been the remains of a faded, worn sticker label was affixed to the side. There was no writing on it. He considered it for a few moments, idly turning it between his fingers.

The room resonated with the din of conversation and no one took notice when he suddenly stood up and walked to the storage cabinet, searching the leisure items till he found a decrepit-looking tape player. It was old and small, meant only for handheld use and sported a brand name that was no longer manufactured. But it was intact and had batteries.

Nobody had used it since they'd been deployed eight months earlier, forgoing the use after mp3 players were banned to keep them aware and alert of their surroundings. Besides, no one used tapes anymore.

A few of the soldiers glanced at him to see what he was doing when he set it atop a table and inserted the tape. Despite not knowing if the device had even turned on, he pressed the play button anyway, turning the volume dial.

Nothing but the faint crackle of static emerged at first, but then the noise ceased and a soft, soulful voice spilled out from the dusty speaker.

The room fell silent almost immediately. Hidan heard the voices die down behind him, paying no attention to the fact that they were all staring at his back because he, too, was stunned into dumbfounded silence. It was an old love song—maybe from the 50s or 60s. He couldn't put a name to it, couldn't remember who sang it, and didn't bother trying to.

Nobody spoke for the duration of the song, staring at the cassette player as though it was a real person, regaling them with the euphonies of something they thought they'd left behind and forgotten.

It must have been for that reason, everyone in the room realized later on, that even though the song continued well past 9:00, the captain only ordered lights out once it had finished.

* * *

_November 5__th__._

_Thanks for the stuff, seriously. Especially the watch. How bad I needed that, you have no idea. Wasn't expecting you to send anything, to be honest. Now you've got me hoping I've actually got a chance at converting you. _

_November 13__th__._

_Well, I guess you could say you've grown on me. And just out of curiousity, why are you trying to convert me? Honestly, are you doing it because—if, by chance I do happen to convert—you'll score brownie points with God? Because in that case I would be somewhat offended, since you'd be doing it for purely selfish reasons. _

_November 20__th__._

_Yeah, so maybe I'm selfish. I like the idea of getting on Jashin-sama's good side and I kinda like the idea of getting you out of a one-way trip to hell—just for the satisfaction of being able to do it. Or maybe I'm trying to score myself a happy afterlife, huh? Maybe I just wanna save your soul for company._

* * *

The watch emitted a jarring string of beeps, audible even through the noise of weary soldiers returning from the field and discussing their hopes for an end to the war. Hidan paid them no attention, engrossed in what he was reading and mechanically silencing the cue for evening prayers.

He flipped to the next page.

Her letters had progressed a long way from when they had been nothing more than a form of entertainment; they were a coping mechanism, a medium for escapism, an outlet for pent-up energies, stimulation for an ennui-addled mind, and a constant reminder of who he was and why he was here, returning to him resolution for his cause where months of nothingness had instilled doubt.

And as disconcerting as the realization may have been, he found that communicating with someone besides his god, with someone who directly responded, someone tangible, flawed as they might have been, elicited more assurance than prayer alone. Someone was listening to him, someone was replying to him, and there was nothing more convincing of self-worth than acknowledgment.

Not to mention being fretted over, he thought wryly, smirking at the page in his hand.

_I can't believe how fast you ate the last box. Just because I'm sending you cookies doesn't mean you get to gorge yourself. Eat in moderation or you're going to wind up with a premature case of diabetes, or, depending on what you think is worse, turn into a lard ass._

He snickered, and as if to spite her, grabbed another cookie from the carton and took a bite. As he read on, he was hardly aware one of the soldiers had come to a stop near his bedside, the sound of his name almost getting lost in the blend of voices.

"Hidan."

"What?" he said distractedly.

"Captain's here to see you."

His brow furrowed as he flipped to the next page. "What the hell does he want now?"

The soldier attempted to say something but meekly withdrew when a louder, gruffer voice broke the silence.

"Lieutenant."

Hidan stopped reading, recognizing the voice and raising his gaze. The captain's expression was taut with grimness. Without preamble, he lowered a briefcase onto the table and opened it.

Hidan stared at its contents as the captain inclined his head and handed him a sealed envelope.

"The date is set for December tenth," he continued as Hidan slowly took the envelope, unable to tear his gaze away from the briefcase. "The details are disclosed inside."

Without waiting for a response, the captain saluted and briskly strode out of the room. Hidan finally sat up straight, hesitating only momentarily before reaching for the briefcase. The C-4 explosive was innocuous in appearance, encased in a black plastic binder; he found it nearly inconceivable that the little object was capable of annihilating a building and that he would be its carrier. The detonator looked equally harmless, cylindrical in shape and small enough to conceal in his fist.

After examining it for a while, he placed the detonator onto his bedside table and glanced askance at the calendar tacked to the wall above his bed.

December 2nd.

Mind blank, he took a moment to slit open the envelope containing the details of the mission. The location, date, and target were listed, and an odd, euphoric sensation encompassed him when he saw the name of Manzo Heki listed as the primary target, only to have the feeling intermingle with the incredibly sobering realization that he was assigned to die in eight days. As he attempted to process this, he lowered his gaze to the letter on the bedspread. The room echoed with the din of conversation and laughter as he sat there, considering it. Without reading the rest, he set it aside and grabbed his notebook from underneath his bed.

The book, once containing one hundred and twenty pages, was now reduced to a mere six. Annoyance bristled inside of him at the thought of having to rush this last reply, considering how the deadline for the day's outgoing mail was in less than an hour. To wait and send it out any later meant it wouldn't make it in time.

Mind made up, Hidan tore a single sheet out of the notebook and uncapped his pen with his teeth, wondering where and how to start. Breaking the news on paper felt like an interruption—an unnatural breach in the flow of their letters' conversational tone. He had no time for banter or languid prose, no time to quote from her previous letter, and his initial sentences sounded almost as mechanical as her first letter had.

Aggravated, he scrunched the paper into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder. As he tore another sheet out of his notebook, Yue wandered up behind him, smacking the dead batteries out of the old handheld tape player. The young soldier had developed a particular fondness for the mix tape, and judging by his expression, was apparently oblivious to the news the captain delivered.

"Hey, Hidan, you got any batteries for this thing? These ones are dead."

"No," Hidan said irritably over his shoulder, pen pausing long enough for the ink to bleed into the paper. "Just use the ones in a walkie-talkie or something."

"I don't see any—ah, never mind. Found some."

Hidan ignored him, intent on finishing what he was writing. Half an hour later and ten minutes before the deadline, after defacing the letter with several scribbled out passages and crossed out words, he folded the crumpled sheet and stuffed it into the envelope.

Writing out the address and sealing the envelope had become second nature to him, but this time he waited, debating with himself until the very last moment when the mail collector arrived and made his rounds with the mail box.

When the man stopped in front of him, Hidan regarded the object he'd placed in the unsealed envelope for a long moment; eventually, a closed expression overtook his features. He sealed it and dropped it into the box.

* * *

_December 9__th__._

It took every ounce of willpower Temari possessed to put off reading the latest letter until she was finished studying. Granted, she knew she was more than well-prepared and could spare herself cramming the day before the exam, but nevertheless, she stuffed the envelope in a kitchen cabinet at noon and locked herself in her room.

Eight hours later, Kankuro glanced up from the couch where he was watching TV, grinning with a mix of incredulity and admiration as Temari slowly made her way down the stairs, blinking blearily.

"You're totally crazy," he said, shaking his head. "What are you trying to do, steal your professor's job? Jeez."

Temari shrugged and stifled a yawn. "Hey, if nonstop studying is what it takes for me to get that scholarship for grad school, then so be it. Did you eat dinner?"

"Yeah."

"And Gaara—"

"_Yes,_" Kankuro interrupted, exasperated. "He's seventeen years old, for God's sake, not five. Go eat your own dinner. You look half-dead."

Temari managed a self-deprecating smile as he rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the TV. Once in the kitchen, she grabbed her dinner from the fridge and put it in the microwave; as it heated, she crossed the room and retrieved the letter from the cabinet.

It felt unusually heavy, she noticed, as she pulled up a stool to sit at the counter. As she ran her fingers over the envelope, a distinct, hard shape was tangible through the paper. Curious, she slit the envelope open, surprised when it yielded a single sheet of paper.

Her brow furrowed when she unfolded it, finding the handwriting messier than usual; the letter appeared rushed and the paper was devoid of his distinctive subsidiary comments and drawings. The microwave beeped but she ignored it, settling for reading the letter first.

_Temari,_

_I've only got a half hour to get this thing done before the mail's due, so I'll make it quick. Captain finally came through on what he promised me and we finally know where Manzo is._

_It's supposed to be secret intelligence or some shit, but fuck that. If I'm gonna die, I have the goddamn right to tell somebody about it. Not like anyone besides you is gonna get a hold of this letter._

_But yeah, date's set for December 10th. _

A strange, cold sensation crept into her fingertips. She could tell he'd paused at this point, the period at the end of "10th" resembling a large blot where his pen must have lingered. He started again at the next paragraph.

_Estimated time is 1600 hours. That'd be 11:00 AM your time. I'm not scared or anything, hell no, if that's what you're thinking. It'll be quick and I'll be taking most of the whole damn insurgency with me, including that Manzo bastard. Jashin-sama will be __STOKED__. And I can quit stressing about everything. That's probably the best part of it—not having to worry anymore about money and bills and whatever, even though I won't get a chance to have my own church, which kinda blows. _

_Anyway, just thought I should say when my letters stop coming. I might as well make the best of the time I have left and pray. But since I don't want my rosary going to waste, you take it. If you don't wind up tossing it (and you better not, damn it, or I'm coming back to haunt your ass), don't just let it lie around looking pretty._

_That's it. Don't have much else to say. _

_It's been fun, seriously._

_Hidan_

The cold permeated from her fingers into the rest of her limbs. She sat, frozen, expression strangely impassive as she attempted to process what she had just read.

The letter did not warrant a second read; there was no need. She eventually set the paper down on the table and then reached for the envelope. The clinking of beads filled the air as the rosary spilled into her outstretched hands. She drew them up in her fingers and ran her thumb over the tarnished surface of the pendant.

She didn't move for a long time.

* * *

_December 10th. 1400 hours._

"This is it, men. If we succeed in this mission, you can more or less count this war as over. Troops are also deployed on the west side. Infiltration starts at…"

The captain's voice droned on, the truck rumbling noisily over the unpaved road as the platoon headed for their final destination: the enemy's base and reported hideout of Manzo Heki. Hidan sat with his back to the interior of the truck, barely paying attention to the captain as he subconsciously touched his chest.

The bomb was nestled beneath his flak jacket. A wire led from the explosive into the detonator in his fist, and it was mind-boggling to consider that the little device could erase his existence in less than a heartbeat.

When he heard the soldier next to him take a sharp breath, he lifted his head and glanced outside. The base was in plain view now, surrounded by the rest of the trucks carrying the troops. As soon as the truck pulled to a stop, the captain ordered them out. The ramps were dropped and soldiers spilled into the area like a swarm of ants, immediately triggering the alarm.

As the truck emptied, Hidan tensed, waiting for his opening as enemy soldiers burst out of the building and lifted the gate. The captain clasped his shoulder from behind.

"Don't let us down. You're doing this for your country."

Hidan turned his head to look at him and sneered. "Correction, asshole. I'm doing this for my church."

Then he leapt out of the truck, taking off full-sprint towards the building. The distance to the building had appeared miniscule from the truck, but now it seemed insurmountable with the obstacles of gunfire and bodies. A grenade went off and he stumbled sideways, barely managing to avoid tripping over the debris before staggering upright and throwing himself into another mad dash for the building.

There was no fear; a sense of closure and satisfaction tempered the violent onslaught of adrenaline and his thundering heartbeat. The bomb strapped to his chest felt like a part of him now, and as he crossed the threshold to the building and went through the first door he found open, he closed his eyes and muttered a prayer. He would not feel the impact of his body against the floor when he threw himself forward, as his thumb would descend on the detonator as soon as his feet left the ground.

That was the plan from the very beginning.

He expected a jolt, a violent jarring of the nerves the instant before death, perhaps something like a ripple in his blood and the initial quivers of a soul about to take flight. Instead, he became conscious of the rather lasting, agonizing impact of his body crashing through a bookcase and the throbbing pain that shouldn't have followed a building-collapsing explosion.

Odd, he hadn't heard the earth-shattering boom he'd been expecting, either. Instead, he became aware of the sounds of gunfire and splintering wood before he skidded to a stop over the floor. Eyes closed, features screwed up in a tense grimace, he waited.

When nothing happened, he cracked open one eye, staring in dumfounded silence at the decimated pile of wood and books he was lying in. The weight of the bomb was heavy against his chest and his eyes widened when he lifted his hand to look at the detonator. His thumb was still pressed against the button.

Unthinkingly, he lifted his thumb from the button and pressed it again. Then he shook it and pressed it again. Nothing happened.

Confounded, Hidan turned the device over, only to see the little plastic covering on the back missing, exposing the empty battery slot. He stared at it incredulously.

"Aw, fuck me…"

* * *

8:59 AM.

The gymnasium was silent save for the squeaking of chalk on chalkboard. The instructor turned from the board to face the hundreds of nervous biology students seated at their desks, pens at the ready and fingers tense around their exam booklets.

"The exam is exactly three hours, starting now," he announced. "Good luck."

There was a flurry of noise as the students turned over their booklets and flipped them open. The clock struck 9:00, and Temari closed her eyes at the sinking feeling in her chest as she opened her own exam booklet.

_Estimated time is 1600 hours. That'd be 11:00 AM your time._

She took a deep breath, tore her gaze away from the clock and began to write.

* * *

1412 hours.

A burgeoning sense of panic was slowly taking over as Hidan crouched beneath a window in the office he'd thrown himself into, waiting for the rebels to run past before he gingerly raised his head to look outside. It was a complete melee of blue and green uniforms, bullets, and grenades going back and forth, and it would only be a matter of time before the platoon ditched.

"Shit," he breathed, pulling away from the window, glancing wildly around the room for a power source. There was absolutely nothing that stood out except for a clock hanging on the wall.

Desperate, he dashed over to it, pulling it off the wall and turning it over to remove the batteries. A curse of frustration burst out of him when he found the battery slot covered by a bolted-on plastic lid.

Outside, the sounds of gunfire grew louder, and realizing he didn't have time to waste, Hidan lifted the clock over his head and flung it as hard as he could against the floor. It shattered on impact, separating into several pieces when he brought his boot down on the face of the clock.

The plastic cover fell away to reveal the batteries, and suddenly hopeful, he smacked them out of the slot and grabbed the detonator, flipping it over and sliding the first battery in.

It didn't fit.

Flabbergasted, Hidan stared at the device for a few seconds before attempting to shove the battery in again. It remained on an obstinate angle, refusing to fit into the slot. His hope quickly dwindled away when he pulled the battery out to look into the slot.

The tiny, etched letters at the bottom indicated the need for AAA batteries.

Hidan looked at the ones in his hand.

They were AA batteries.

The window shattered when he violently flung the useless batteries through the glass, screaming in frustration. "_Shit_!"

Furious, he moved back over to the window, feeling the blood drain out of his face when he saw several of the rebels running into the forest in retreat, including a figure decked out in the bright red commander uniform. Manzo Heki.

"I'm fucked," Hidan said blankly. "I'm beyond fucked."

The bomb blast was delayed and Manzo was getting away, and even if he could find a way to detonate the damn explosives, he couldn't afford to give up his life for it without taking Manzo with him.

The escalating fury culminated in him flinging the first piece of furniture he could find—the desk—halfway across the room and throwing down the last standing bookcase. It fell with a satisfying crash, knocking one of the doors off a wall cabinet on its way down. At the same time, several grenades went off somewhere above the room he was in, the ensuing shower of rubble barring the doorway.

For a few seconds after that, all he could do was stand there, staring blankly at the destroyed room as the noise outside increased in volume, more explosions raining dust from the ceiling and causing the lights to flicker.

He blinked, looking up as the lights flickered again. His gaze settled on the cabinet he'd knocked open. Without thinking, he moved over to it, eyes widening when he realized the doors had been covering the building's circuit breakers.

He stared at it for a second longer before whipping around to look at the wall he'd shoved the desk away from, eyes scouring the corners of the room for an electrical outlet. A double outlet was visible close to where he was standing, nearly obscured by a potted plant.

The idea clicked into place with a clarity and celerity that must have been borne of utter desperation because even Hidan was momentarily stunned at its brilliance. It was absolutely insane and there were far too many what-if factors to consider, but it was the only remaining option.

The building needed power to run surveillance, needed power for its radars and various communication feeds to function. A trip in the circuit breakers would be catastrophic at a time like this.

Inwardly, Hidan recited a short prayer of gratitude and blessing towards Deidara for his endless ramblings about the beautiful simplicity of explosives and how at their basest levels, all they required was a little spark, a little route to carry the spark, and a little fairy dust.

The fairy dust, of course, was a euphemism for an explosive substance. At the moment, it was the C-4 plastic explosive strapped to his chest. It had the copper wire route, but no charge to deliver the spark.

Without hesitation, Hidan removed the bomb and slammed the detonator down on the desk, smashing it open and tugging loose the copper wire. Then he proceeded to destroy what remained of the desk in search of a paper clip, finding one affixed to one of the documents inside a drawer. Had Manzo still been in the building, the plan would have been simple; all that was left to do was wrap the copper wire around the paper clip and jam it into an outlet.

The resulting charge and simultaneous electrocution would have detonated several bombs without a hitch, but since he couldn't afford to die just yet, the insurgents running around in the building would have to do their part to make it happen.

He prepared the impromptu paperclip detonator, setting it next to the bomb on the floor near the outlet. Then he fished around in his pockets for a matchbook, striking a match and ensuring a flame leapt up before he reached for the circuit breakers and pulled the main switch supplying power to the building.

The room was instantly plunged into darkness save for the lit match and the faint light streaming through the window on the far side of the room. Several muffled cries of surprise at the sudden power-out were audible through the vents.

Moving quickly, he cupped a hand over the flame and knelt, edging forward along the wall until the flame illuminated the outlet and the bomb. Picking up his paperclip detonator, he took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut before inserting it into the outlet.

When he realized he wasn't being electrocuted, he let out a relieved breath and lowered the burning match, making sure the wire attached to the paperclip followed its route into the explosive.

The reality of the situation seemed to sink in all at once when he realized his plan might actually work, and at the same time he was overwhelmed with the burning urge to get the hell out of there as fast as his legs could take him.

He dropped the extinguished match, realizing he wouldn't be able to escape through the door. There was only one exit, and he didn't pause to reconsider when he braced his arms over his head, breaking into a sprint and throwing himself through the window. It shattered noisily, raining shards over the dirt and snagging in his jacket. He turned his fall into a roll midway before hitting the ground and immediately shot to his feet again, taking off.

Despite the hail of bullets flying in all directions around him, he still shed his vest and gun in mid-sprint, flinging the items away in the attempt to lighten himself. A grenade went off a few meters away, spraying debris in all directions and forcing him to veer slightly off his course from the forest.

The rest of the team had long since ditched. Even the helicopters had started to pull back. He was the only one remaining, and the thought almost brought a hysterical laugh out of him when it occurred to him that he was somehow still alive and running through a warzone in nothing but a jacket and cargo pants.

It was at that moment one of the rebels ran into the room Hidan had just left. The man's flashlight only happened to catch sight of a wire leading from an outlet into a bomb when he pushed down on the circuit breaker switch.

The explosion that followed blew a crater twenty feet deep in the ground beneath the building, shattering glass, bricks, and reducing steel beams to tangled wreckage all within the expanse of a few seconds. It drowned out the beating of helicopter wings and rattling gunfire, muting whatever screams had sounded before flame and debris engulfed everything.

Hidan had been at least thirty feet from the edge of the forest when the shockwave threw him well beyond the entrance and into the dense foliage, sending his body crashing through branches and brambles before he landed in a pile of brushwood.

He laid there for several minutes, limbs spread-eagle as he fought to catch his breath and convince himself he had all his body parts. Everything ached, throbbing as though he'd been beaten with clubs, though getting caught in a bomb blast and crashing through tree branches wasn't so far from the analogy.

An attempt to move yielded agony and a string of curses, muscles protesting when he forced himself to sit up anyway, clutching his side. Even from where he was sitting, he could see the thick, billowing clouds of smoke rising up from the destroyed building, filling the air with the acerbic stench of burning wood and plastic.

He dragged himself to his feet, staggering before managing to stand upright and get a good look at his surroundings. It didn't even occur to him to celebrate for getting the job done when the odds had been so against him; the fact that the building had been destroyed didn't change the fact that at that very moment, Manzo was still alive and running away like a cowardly little bitch.

The realization evoked another vicious onslaught of fury. Hidan shoved the pain to the back of his mind and took off in the direction of the flattened undergrowth and disturbed foliage.

He encountered several bodies along the way, most of them sporting single gunshot wounds to the head. The thought that Manzo wanted to lighten the load and make his tracks less obvious wasn't surprising at all to him.

The light within the forest dimmed considerably as late afternoon began tapering off into evening. The sun slunk out from beneath the clouds, reddening with the passing hours and making it all the more difficult to follow the tracks through the forest.

Hidan persevered, his clinking dog tags eventually becoming the only audible sound in the area. That was only until a single, muffled gunshot sounded somewhere ahead. He froze, pausing to listen and discern which direction it had come from.

Straight ahead, he realized, quickening his pace into a run.

At the cost of what Manzo had thought was lessening his chances at being followed, he'd given away his location. Hidan grinned at his luck, inwardly aware that Manzo had a gun whereas he didn't. It didn't occur to him to think it would make a difference. He knew it wouldn't. He simply wouldn't let it.

Fifteen minutes later, he staggered through the foliage into a clearing, the last of the branches snapping back and lining the pale skin of his cheeks with streaks of blood. The silence lasted far longer than he felt was normal and his suspicion was justified with the loud, jarring report of a bullet slamming into a tree behind him.

Hidan whipped his head in the direction of the gunshot, throwing himself out of the way as another bullet slammed into the ground near his feet, spraying up leaves and grass.

Silence fell again as he lay low, scouring the trees for a sign of movement. His fingers curled into the matted grass when Manzo suddenly stepped out into the clearing, his gun held out in front of him. His coat was gone, leaving him clad in nothing but pants and a thin shirt that was stained with blood and sweat.

"Come out," Manzo called suddenly, eyes searching the trees. "I know you've been following me."

He advanced till he was standing at the side of the forest Hidan had just emerged from, unaware that his pursuer had crawled out from the underbrush and was creeping up behind him, steps muffled by the carpet of grass underfoot.

"Come out!"

When no response was forthcoming, he slowly turned his body back around, gaze still fixed on the trees, only to feel a vice-like grip suddenly take hold of his arm. He whipped around just as the gun was shoved down by his side.

What greeted him was a sight resembling a wraith more than a man. Hair in disarray, face streaked and bloody, eyes reflecting the sun in a way that made them appear scarlet—he was wearing a grin so malicious it would have cowed the Devil.

"Surprise, motherfucker," Hidan said, then slammed his head forward in a vicious head butt.

Manzo stumbled back, the blow knocking him off balance and onto his behind. The gun landed on the grass in front of him, and when he regained his senses long enough to try and lunge for it, a swift kick under the chin sent him flying onto his back.

Manzo saw him coming and lunged for the gun again, fingertips managing to brush the barrel when he was hauled to his feet by his shirt, doubling over as a fist slammed into his stomach. Winded, he would have fallen to his knees if he wasn't abruptly thrown against a tree.

A moment later, a hand descended against his throat with enough force to make him choke, raising his head till he was staring into his captor's livid expression.

"I've been waiting a year," Hidan hissed. "A year in this fucking shithole just to kill you."

"You'll gain nothing from killing me," Manzo retorted, though his eyes shone with fear. "And for what, your country? For the love of your—"

A yelp burst out of him when Hidan released him long enough to belt him across the face.

"Bastard," he snarled, grabbing him by the throat again. "You had no idea who you were fucking with when you decided to go ahead and blow up my church, did you?"

"Church?" Manzo echoed blankly. "What church?"

"The Church of Jashinism, you cocksucker. Nineteen months ago. Blew it up in your shitty attempt to kill the prime minister. Or was it so unimportant you don't remember?"

"Is that why you're here?" Manzo suddenly sneered, contempt momentarily overshadowing his apprehension. "For a _church_? Churches can be rebuilt. It would be practical to harbor that passion for something more useful."

Something in his captor's face told Manzo he must have said the wrong thing. The commander's expression melted into one of alarm when the fingers around his throat abruptly closed inwards.

In a last ditch effort, the commander reached for the knife in his back pocket, flicking it open and slashing forward blindly. Hidan abruptly released him, both of them glancing down to see that the blade had only pierced the fabric of his jacket. That was enough for Manzo, as he took advantage of Hidan's surprise and shoved him off, slamming the blade of the knife into the tree.

It bought him enough time to stumble the few meters it took to reach his gun, grabbing it and spinning around in time to see Hidan rip the knife out of the tree and lunge after him. The sight was more than enough incentive for him to forgo aiming and simply pull the trigger.

Several missed, but one bullet hit a shoulder and another bit into his side; Hidan felt none of it, aware of nothing more than muffled thumps and flowing heat.

Manzo attempted to fire off another round, panic gradually trickling into his features when the soldier he shot stumbled but did not fall down and the trigger he pulled did nothing but elicit a resounding, hollow click in the gun's chamber.

The commander dropped the gun, turning to flee back towards the other side of the forest where he'd left one of his followers' bodies.

Hidan tore after him with the single-minded fury of one who held no expectations to come out alive, intent now on only fulfilling his goal. He reached for his last weapon—a Bowie knife in his shin holster—an enraged scream erupting out of him as Manzo burst into the forest and dove for the corpse's gun.

The commander whipped around, thrusting the gun out just as the knife arched into his field of vision.

The gunshot nearly shattered Hidan's eardrums, the impact throwing him back against a tree with enough force to snap the overhanging leaves from their stems, sending them spiraling down onto the forest floor.

A moment later, Manzo dropped the gun in favour of clutching his slashed throat, choking on the blood flooding his trachea and staring in shock at the sight of the bloodied knife at his feet. After a few seconds, he collapsed, motionless.

Hidan didn't take his eyes off of him until Manzo was facedown on the ground, not seeming to realize that he'd been shot; a rush of endorphins dulled the pain into a pulsating throb that was more annoying than anything else.

He straightened to stand on his feet, quaking arms releasing the trunk that had been supporting him as an uncontrollable grin spread across his face.

"I did it," he breathed, eyes widening. "I did it, Jashin-sama…"

The euphoria was brief, for as soon as the words left his lips, blood followed the air striving to get into his lungs, reducing his next inhalation to a gurgling rasp.

The grin gradually wavered, perspiration beading on his forehead as a crushing heaviness settled into his chest. The pain it evoked drowned out every intrinsic sense and perception; he lost touch of the ground, along with the ability to distinguish the far-off echoes of gunshots from his own throbbing heartbeat. Balance abandoned him and he fell back against the tree, unaware of the blood streak he left on the bark when he eventually slid to his knees.

For a brief moment, he merely sat there in bewilderment at the inexplicable weakness that was spreading through him like poison, staring unfocusedly at the blood speckling the dirt. The reality of the wounds sank in when he counted the empty bullet shells littering the floor near the corpse. As if to verify, he reached up to touch the throbbing points on his body.

_One… two…three_, he counted, fingers ghosting over each gunshot wound, lingering on the one in his chest before trailing away. They glistened with a stunningly bright, garish red, the colour almost violent in its contrast against the muted tones of his surroundings.

He was trembling; it didn't occur to him to wonder why, but it stirred a vague sort of anger that blocked out the pain long enough to take control of his mouth.

"Pussy," he mumbled, brow furrowing slightly in self-reproach. "You fuckin' pussy…it's nothing… seriously."

Hardly aware of the screaming protest of his injured shoulder, he mechanically reached forward to grip a tree branch. An attempt to bring his legs to movement sent him toppling forward. He didn't register the impact with the ground until blades of grass were tickling at his lips and he was returning the gaze of the dead commander across the beaten path.

_I'm dying_, he realized, confounded by the limpness of his limbs and the crushing heaviness weighing him into the dirt. _Holy shit, I'm dying._

He vaguely noticed he was still holding onto the branch. When he released it, the impact of his arm hitting the ground sounded hollow. Final.

"Shit," he mumbled. "Fuckin' shit…"

The sun dipped further beneath the clouds, casting scarlet and orange beams through the haze of smoke and dust, spotting the forest floor with vivid little spots. A shaft of light fell across his wrist, illuminating the digital display of the watch in time to see it hit 16:00. As the numbers flashed, the watch emitted a jarring string of beeps, signaling the time for afternoon prayers.

"I know," he muttered in response, forehead sinking into the blades of grass. "Just…gimme a sec."

The prayer specifically meant to be uttered during death, to ease his passing and guide his soul to Jashin was fresh in his mind, one of the first he'd learned upon joining the church. The smothering weight on his chest prevented him from saying the prayer the way he would have liked, stifling the words to the extent that they didn't even disturb the grass they escaped into.

"Jashin-sama, the only Seer…disperse the rays and gather up Thy burning light. I behold Thy glorious form."

An explosion shook the encampment nearby, interspersed with the sounds of insurgents' screams and cries to retreat. Bits of debris rained onto the forest floor, impacting dully off his frame. He remained oblivious, annoyed at how damn _difficult_ this was.

"May this body be burnt by fire to ashes…remember my deeds."

As the screams faded in the distance and the noise of shattering foundations and glass tinkled into silence, the insistent beeping of his watch became audible again, sounding almost frantic in the stillness. He swallowed thickly, ignoring the taste of blood and focusing instead on the scent of fertile soil and green grass.

It wasn't so bad, he decided, surprised at his own lucidity. He simply felt heavy and incredibly tired, unaware that he'd already closed his eyes. The background noise melded and quieted into a low hum and his thoughts drifted in that aimlessly hazy fashion privy to late-night ponderings. Just like the thoughts one had while daydreaming. Or just before sleep.

_Yeah, like that_, he mused. _Like sleeping_.

The grass gently tickled his lips and the furrow in his brow gradually receded. Suddenly, he found that the wounds didn't hurt anymore.

_Just like sleeping._

* * *

Temari finished writing the exam half an hour before everyone else, yet she remained in the classroom, checking and re-checking her answers mechanically, refusing to raise her gaze to the clock situated on the wall across the room. Her palms were cold and clammy, throat tight with trepidation and growing tighter when she finished looking through the exam booklet for the third time.

With measured slowness, she carefully closed the booklet and placed the exam questionnaire inside of it, pushing it across the surface of the desk till it rested on the upper right corner. As the paper left her fingers, they curled inwards over the surface of the desk, clenching into tight fists. The room seemed to roar with pencil-strokes, the sound gradually growing more frenzied and intense as writing time neared an end.

Temari stared blankly at the booklet on the desk, reading and re-reading the instructions on the cover, tracing the distinct curves of her writing and the shape of her name.

It took everything she had to restrain herself from jerking in surprise when the professor's hand descended on the booklet. She raised her gaze to a softly smiling face that nodded to let her know she could leave.

She stared at him momentarily before pressing her lips into a firm line and nodding in return, gently easing her chair back to rise and collect her bag.

The noise of scratching pens faded as she slowly left the room, letting the door swing closed behind her. The hallways were empty save for the odd student rushing by to get to their exam. She paid them no heed, eyes trained sightlessly on the tiles as she made her way outside.

She left the campus, stopping at the traffic lights preceding the school parking lot. The other people standing at the crosswalk started across the road. Temari hesitated, then turned away and started towards the park on the other side of the street.

The park was mostly empty; most students were either at home studying or writing their exams. Relieved and grateful for the silence, she found a bench beneath the skeletal shadow of a cherry tree and pulled her scarf tighter around her neck.

Clouds roamed the sky overhead, obscuring the pale sun at odd intervals and casting fleeting shadows over her surroundings. A bicyclist rode by on the footpath in front of her with a clacking whir, and then there was silence.

She sat there for several minutes, doing nothing, feeling detached from herself and her surroundings. The sudden vibration of her cell phone startled her out of her reverie moments later. She withdrew it from her pocket, finding a text message from Kankuro.

_Gonna be home late. Work._

The message lingered on the screen till the phone automatically locked itself again, reverting to its regular display. Against her own will, Temari looked away from the time at the bottom of the screen, brow furrowing as she tried to will away the painful feeling finding rest in her chest and wondering why she felt it in the first place.

He was morally questionable. Indisputably insane. Belligerent and crude. Irascible and fanatical.

But at the same time, possessive of the very traits she found lacking in everyone else.

Honest to the point of being blunt. Genuine. Passionate. Devoted. Real.

There was not much to go by on common ground, as he contradicted her in nearly every manner imaginable, but there was communion—communion without bounds. No restrictions stemming from obligations to keep one's appearance. No hesitations. There was a lack of labels, of designated titles and roles.

There was no right or wrong. There were just thoughts in freeform, straying across paper as fast as the hand could record them. No censorship. No facades. No need to fret, to think that her words would incite concern like they would have in Kankuro. She could say what she thought and felt without reprisal or the incipient feelings of guilt one felt after unloading emotional baggage on someone else. Like screaming into a pillow, or writing in a diary, but this time there was someone paying attention, someone listening.

At the thought, a passage from one of his October letters resurfaced.

_I need to do it, you know. It's not just because it's my duty as a follower. I'd go out of my fucking mind if I didn't. Nobody else listens, and if they do, you know that inside they're judging you. _

_But this way you can ramble, run off track, talk shit without feeling like a dumbass because you know the guy on the other side will always listen. You're not boring him. You're not freaking him out. You just do it._ _You can confess, say shit you wouldn't even tell your best friend. You can vent, yell, curse, laugh, and not once do you think twice about what you're saying or if it's making you look bad. That's why I do it. That's why I have to do it. That's what God is for. And being afraid, worrying about how you're gonna look and sound, putting a plug in and cutting yourself short—being fake? That's what you do with everyone else. That's what people are for._

No fear of judgment.

Just communication.

Those were the reasons behind his devotion to prayer and the reasons behind his failed relationship with the rest of humanity. When she thought about it, he was the type of person she would have done everything in her power to avoid in normal circumstances.

But what were normal circumstances, anyway? She wondered. Where was the shrewdness, the calculating wariness, the caution?

She had feigned being hurt in her reply, when in fact she secretly wondered if he thought of her in the same light.

_That's a rather pessimistic worldview for someone who hates pessimists. What about me? Do I count as one of those "people"?_

His response had been brief.

_Gimme a break, I was generalizing. But seriously, besides talking to Jashin-sama about this sort of thing, you're my next best choice. Feel special._

She let out a slow breath, and when she glanced at the phone again, the time read 12:54 PM. All at once the pain in her throat and chest became unbearable.

Temari didn't realize that a shadow had fallen over her until a voice broke into her thoughts, tinged with concern.

"Are you all right?"

She looked up, blinking at the sight of a young woman standing on the footpath with a stroller. The woman's expression contorted into one of worry when their gazes met. Before Temari could speak, the woman reached into her bag and fished out a packet of tissues, holding one out.

It was only then Temari became aware of the wetness on her face and the damp spots on the thighs of her jeans.

The woman eventually sat down beside her, murmuring things that fell on deaf ears but were comforting, nonetheless, simply because they were said. For once, Temari felt no disgust or self-reproach for the tears—only a resigned sort of acceptance.

It was strange how one's mind could remain cool and detached, even when faced with painful physical sensation; it continued to ruminate, unperturbed as the rest of the body succumbed to anguish, and it was no different now.

_I guess when you refuse to let yourself grieve_, she concluded reflectively, curling her fingers around the tissue, _sometimes your body will go ahead without your consent. _


	3. Chapter 3

A Remedy for Lassitude

By: firefly

Note: Final chapter, guys. A big thank you to everyone for sticking by this fic and indulging my love for crack scenarios, and my undying gratitude to everyone for their reviews. They mean more than I can explain. Here's hoping you enjoy the last installment. :D As always, reviews are love.

* * *

A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.

—Emily Dickinson

A Remedy for Lassitude ch.3

_December 11__th__._

The house was still and empty save for her, creaking and murmuring as gusts of chill wind whipped against the window panes and crept into cracks in the foundations. A plume of dust drifted into the air as Temari blew gently on the lid of the shoe box, removing it to gaze at the contents six months after seeing them last.

Her grandmother's letters lay bound in a neat pile in the centre, flanked on all sides by the little vials and knick-knacks she'd given Temari over the years. Out of habit, she lifted out her favourite one, marveling at the sight of sand from the Sahara Desert bottled here in her hands so far from home.

It felt comforting in her grip and she held it for a while before turning her attention to the letters in her lap. Returning the vial to the box, she took up the plain white envelopes with their familiar black scrawl. A folded sheet of notebook paper peeked out from the roughly torn edge of one of the envelopes and despite the small, tired voice in the back of her mind telling her not to, she withdrew the sheet and unfolded it.

_August 10__th__._

_What are you so shocked for? Of course I went to seminary school. Need a degree to become a minister, you know. Good thing I applied for the army when I did cuz those loan officers were fucking pissed. Not my fault I can't find a job in this shitty economy, and there's no way in hell I'm gonna flip burgers or deliver pizzas or some crap like that. Seriously, there's no respect in it._

She recalled her response, remembering how she'd teased him.

_Be careful, you never know what you might end up doing when money's tight. Maybe you'll find yourself desperate enough to apply as a clown for kids' birthday parties. Now there's a respectful job._

Temari flipped to the next letter, finding his response.

_August 24__th__._

_No way in hell. I'd sell a fucking kidney before stooping to that level. What about you, huh? Being such a strict disciplinarian and all, bet you'd have loads of fun performing a valuable service like picking off escaped convicts with a sniper. _

She remembered laughing out loud at that when she'd first read it, and smiling faintly, she folded the sheet again and placed it back in the envelope. She bound the envelopes with an elastic band and placed them into the box along with her grandmother's letters, gazing down at them with a million questions buzzing in her skull.

Why the superfluous comments? Why the inanities? Should she have been more prudent? Should she have written exactly what she felt after reading his letters? Was it because of pride that she hadn't been up front when she'd had the chance?

Inwardly, she wondered if he'd had any regrets after sending out his last letter. Had he been reticent with his words at all like she had? In that moment, it occurred to her that there had never been an instance where she felt he was being reserved with his words. He'd been an open book, revealing everything whether it made him look good or bad. Why hadn't she done the same?

Regret pooled in her chest, cold and discomforting as she contemplated the question. Even if she had written what she felt, what would it have accomplished? Would that have changed anything? Could such thoughts and feelings, spontaneous and fleeting and inexplicable as they were—could they be put on paper? Did they make sense out in the open, when articulated? Or was she right in saving them inside for private contemplation?

She closed her eyes, trying to find a way to express what he stirred in her and envision what her last letter to him should have sounded like.

_This is going to sound strange and awkward and it's probably better suited to staying private, but just in case anything happens, I have to let you know that writing to you makes me feel alive. It's a paradox: you're impulsive, fanatical, and belligerent, and I'm level-headed, straightforward, and practical, and I should be confused as to how we can possibly communicate coherently when there are so many contradictions between us. But I should tell you, in case I never get the opportunity again: you've changed my life. You, on the other side of the world, someone I've never met, someone I've never seen a picture of, possibly someone short or fat or tall it doesn't matter—I just have to tell you I smile more now and I'm happier and it's strange because I swear more than I used to. I'm happier because you listen to me and talk to me and maybe it's an illusion but I feel you do it because you care and that boggles the mind because I only know you through paper and ink, through your scribbles and spikes and sharp edges, which makes me wonder if I hardly know you at all and if I'm just being delusional. It's perplexing because some things remind me of you and that makes me think I must care too because why else would I bother thinking of you in the first place? I like vegetable soup and you like spare ribs and it makes me question what the hell compels you to keep on writing to someone so freakishly divergent from your interests. Or are these all surface things, our likes and dislikes? Maybe we connect on a level below the surface. Maybe we connect out of desperation. I hate to admit this but I have to: you and your letters have become a coping mechanism in my life and until I remember where I left my pride and figure a way out of this compromising and potentially dangerous situation, please listen to me when I say stay safe. Stay safe, stay safe, stay safe. Please stay safe because you have become my crutch._

Temari opened her eyes, finding her hands clenched into fists on her thighs. She didn't think herself capable of feeling so much at once, remorse flooding through her till she was almost numb.

She closed the shoe box and slid it back under her bed, deciding she needed to get out of the room and out of the house.

Grabbing her coat, gloves and keys, she emerged into the frigid December morning and took off walking in the first direction she glanced in, paying no attention to where it led her so long as it tired her enough to make her stop caring.

She walked till her toes ached with cold within her boots and glanced up an hour later when she found herself on a familiar street. She caught sight of the doctor's office Chiyo used to take her to as a child, the memory oddly soothing as she gazed at the small dwelling and its adjacent pharmacy from across the street.

Eventually, she leaned back against the brick wall of the building behind her, settling for observing her surroundings and hoping the nostalgia it elicited would purge the chaos of noise and confusion inside her head.

A hush had fallen on the usually busy road. Car lights twinkled in the distance and the gentle rumbling of crackling gravel sounded from afar, strangely comforting as she stood there gazing out at the street.

A string of gleaming flags fluttered over the used car depot, swaying beckoningly in the breeze. She could see an old woman sitting inside the Laundromat next door, reading a magazine as a tenant from the apartment upstairs leaned out his window and smacked his defunct satellite dish.

It was an odd scene, one she felt detached from, like an outsider peering through a glass display at specimens who were oblivious to her scrutiny. After a few moments, she found that the scene was doing nothing to assuage her thoughts, realizing that the longer she stood there, the more the hollowness within her chest seemed to expand. It left her with the feeling that, even if she waited till midday, when the streets would be teeming with people and the roads were noisy with cars and buses, she would feel no more comforted than she had watching the flag banner wave in the wind.

She straightened and moved away from the brick wall, tucking her hands into her pockets and walking onwards down the street. Coffee shops, thrift stores, an elementary school and a stream of small houses drifted past in a blur of concrete and indifference, disconnected from her and her aimless thoughts.

When she reached a traffic light, she glanced over at a nearby convenience store where the owner was tossing some garbage into the dumpster in the alley. Right next door was a small, quaint building she didn't recognize until she lowered her eyes to the sign affixed to the wall above the doorway.

It was a church.

The light turned green ahead of her, inviting her passage onto another street of endless rows of houses and stores. Temari bit her lip and turned away from the crosswalk, making her way up to the miniscule building. The name of the religious denomination on the sign escaped her and didn't really matter as she paused at the door, hand hovering above the brass handle in uncertainty.

What the hell are you doing? She asked herself, feeling foolish. What do you plan on doing once you go in? Are you even allowed to go in? Do you have to register for this sort of thing? Will they toss you out?

She eventually grew weary listening to her doubts and decided, if anything, she just needed a place to sit down for a while away from the cold.

The door was unlocked when she pulled on it, closing behind her with a bang as she stepped inside. The church was completely empty as she stood there on the red carpet leading towards the pulpit, surrounded on her left and right by rows of empty pews.

Candles glowed on either corner of the pulpit and the air was redolent with the faint scent of incense and dried flowers. The walls, which must have been white a long time ago, were stained a faint amber colour by water leaks and the heat of candles.

The floorboards creaked loudly as she took a step forward, raising her head to look around. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, emitting faint, mottled light through glazed bulbs. The rafters were caked with dust and laced with cobwebs.

Raising an eyebrow at the state of the place, Temari pulled her hands out of her pockets and made her way to the foremost pew, glancing around once before taking a seat. Though old and unkempt, the building was warm and eased the stiffness in her limbs.

She raised her hand, rubbing her palm as warmth crept into her fingers, then tensed when the floorboards gave a loud creak. Temari raised her head sharply, stilling in her seat when a man emerged from a door next to the pulpit and suddenly noticed her presence.

"Oh, good morning," the man said, smiling. "Sorry if I startled you."

He was a tall, stately-looking gentleman in his mid-seventies. His hair had gone completely white and his hands were speckled with liver spots, but he stood confidently and without the slightest hint of a hunch. Temari's eyes strayed to his white robes and her uncertainty heightened with the realization that he was the minister.

"You didn't," she said awkwardly, shifting in her seat to face him. "It's just my first time here."

He nodded and took a few steps forward to sit on the pew adjacent to her. "Always a pleasure to see a new face…though regrettably, the timing is unfortunate."

At her questioning glance, he raised his gaze to the ceiling and smiled wistfully.

"I am retiring at the end of the month. My wife would like a place away from the bustle and noise of the city."

Something about his unassuming tone put her at ease. Feeling more comfortable, she sat up straighter and regarded him curiously. "Does that mean another minister will take over?"

"That's what I was hoping," he admitted, resting a hand almost affectionately on the backrest of his pew. "But there haven't been any takers. Most likely, the church will be converted into a shop."

Something in her expression told him the announcement struck a nerve. Her eyes visibly clouded over as she looked away.

"That's too bad," she said after a moment. "If you don't get anyone to take over."

He chuckled. "Well, if you know anyone…"

She smiled back, but in a noticeably strained way. "I did. Know someone, that is. He wanted to be a minister, too."

He seemed to detect a note in her voice that convinced him to keep silent, giving her his full attention and waiting patiently as she paused.

"He was fighting in the war," she continued after a while. "We didn't know each other until I started writing to him in June." At this point, she smiled faintly in amusement. "He was obsessed with his religion. And he really wasn't subtle about wanting me to convert."

The smile wavered momentarily, then widened. "And even though it got redundant after a while, he never stopped. It made me think he was crazy, to be honest, and I think he knew that and didn't care. He was really that passionate about it..."

She gazed at some obscure point on the ground, the smile eventually receding into a pensive look. "…too passionate."

After a prolonged moment of silence, the minister lowered his gaze to his clasped hands. His voice was thoughtful when he spoke.

"Sometimes, what we view as flaws are regarded as virtues through the precepts of one's faith. Like any ideal, faith is a thing many are willing to die for. And why?"

He raised his gaze and read the restrained questions etched in her features.

"We are all looking for fulfillment. For something worth dying for. Some of us just find it sooner than others…and in things people can find intangible and wasteful."

When she lowered her eyes, he smiled slightly. "But what one finds wasteful, another can find capable of offering his soul the fulfillment and happiness he is searching for. Who are we to judge others? We can only live and let live."

Temari lifted her head, wanting to speak or nod to acknowledge what he'd said, but found herself incapable with the weight of the lump forming in her throat. The minister leveled her with a kind, compassionate gaze as she lowered her eyes again and leaned back against the pew.

He rose to his feet and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. When he spoke, quiet with empathy and understanding, the words drowned out the hapless questions rending her from the inside.

"Don't be afraid to cast aside pride. It is not a sin to mourn."

* * *

Sacrifices.

That's what they were, at the basest level. Their unit consisted of those with zero ties and obligations. They made the best soldiers, uninterrupted by thoughts of doubt, undeterred by moments of hesitation. Theirs was a private passion, a sacrifice made on behalf of ideals and personal motivations, and that was what made them deadly.

A machine could be brought down. It was predictable in its systematic nature and its weaknesses easy to determine. It was programmed to follow a particular path to get its job done. It depended on commands and protocol. It was a puppet, useless unless there was someone there to pull the strings.

Their kind was different. Death was a companion they carried with them and limits nothing more than vague notions. Blood was fuel and loss of it was interpreted as an incentive to act harder, faster, stronger to make the best of what remained.

The term applied to those able to transcend human limits, be they emotional, physical, or psychological. Pain was a concept, not something to be dwelt on. Exhaustion was merely a sign to cut loose for the final bang. Death was a relief, a well-deserved rest after the toil.

The kamikaze soldier did not expect to open his eyes again after that final collapse and found no reason to try. With one's purpose complete, there was no need. There was no unfinished business to attend to and no reservations inciting them to cling to the edges of life.

But sometimes aspirations remained, secondary to their primary purposes but swaying enough to keep them holding on. Sometimes purposes extended past patriotism, faith, and servitude. Sometimes the will to live came from nothing more than the desire to simply see what would happen next.

The kamikaze soldier did not expect to open his eyes, but nestled amidst their resolution, pride, and indelible determination to greet death without fear, they sometimes, secretly, held the will to try anyway.

* * *

_2123 hours. A nameless forest._

Beams of intense, white light pierced through the foliage, startling nocturnal animals into flight, the muffled sounds of their scampering interspersed with footsteps and snapping twigs. There were six beams, each sweeping different parts of the dense greenery, issuing from flashlights fixed atop machine guns.

Each soldier kept his finger pressed lightly against the trigger, searching the darkness for any potential survivors, insurgents or otherwise.

Moonlight bathed the forest in a soft, silvery hue, illuminating any signs of footprints, bullet casings, or blood. Twenty minutes elapsed without incidence, the forest remaining quiet and still save for the occasional scarpering animal.

The silence was eventually broken by the faint, yet audible chirping of a cricket as they neared the west side.

Two of them met up at a checkpoint, radioing in the others until one of the soldiers shifted his gun. The flashlight moved and illuminated the dark stains speckling the matted grass nearby. He raised his weapon, following the trail, gaze settling on the snapped branches of the thicket ahead.

He could hear the others coming in from behind. Without thinking twice, he brushed through the thicket, wincing against the backlash of twigs and subconsciously following the cricket's chirping. It was getting louder, he noticed, as he stepped into a clearing, sweeping the flashlight over the foliage.

As he took a few more steps into the clearing, he realized the chirping held a somewhat hollow, mechanical quality, as though it were artificial. Brow furrowing in confusion, he shouldered his gun and followed the noise, gradually recognizing it as the beeping from some sort of device.

The thought that it might have been a bomb left him as soon as his light fell on the copious amounts of blood soaking the ground and, just beyond it, three bodies.

He recognized the army fatigue on one of them despite the bloodstains covering the majority of the uniform and immediately grabbed his walkie-talkie to call the others.

The first man, he was stunned to find, was Manzo Heki. He'd been dead for at least a few hours. The other had been one of the rebels.

A moment later, he was kneeling near the fallen soldier's side, reaching down to turn him over as the others burst through the clearing. The beeping was coming from the soldier's watch, the digital display perpetually flashing the time as 16:00 hours.

"Holy shit," he breathed, eyes taking in the gunshot wounds, fingers withdrawing a moment later from the pale, cold neck.

"Is that…?" one of the others began disbelievingly, slowing to a stop.

The first ignored him, slinging his gun over his back as he reached down to remove the bloodstained jacket.

"Get the stretcher. Quick."

* * *

He felt like he was moving but couldn't be sure, unaware if he still possessed a body or if he was some sort of effervescence drifting aimlessly through a mist. Nothing hurt and that was a good sign, but his head spun and things that felt like hands jostled and touched him.

Any attempts to elucidate what he was experiencing were futile; his thoughts were slow, muddled, and confused. But impatience gradually pushed through the weight of drowsiness and bewilderment and he forced himself to get a grasp on his surroundings.

His eyelids flickered and he wondered if the light, dreamy sensation encompassing him was a symptom of the soul leaving one's body.

_I don't know about that, _a voice said doubtfully in the back of his mind._ That shit feels like morphine to me._

Even if he wasn't sure he possessed a body or not, he still made the effort to scowl at the thought.

_Hey, that's just how it feels. I don't think heaven's supposed to make you feel like you're high, seriously._

Then where the hell am I? He wondered, briefly seized with the horrifying thought that he'd entered some sort of limbo.

_Open your eyes and look, dumbass. _

He tried to move his head (if he still had one) to tell the voice to fuck off, but the movement prompted a severe sensation of vertigo that startled him enough to do as it said.

His eyelids cracked open painfully, pupils narrowing beneath the intense glare of light above him. It had an obnoxious quality to it and reamed into the depths of his skull, eliciting a throbbing, dull pain. The surface beneath what felt like his fingers was cold and hard. His lips parted, expression contorting into a grimace as he squinted disbelievingly into the brightness.

"Heaven's…got fluorescent lights...?"

A hand touched him, slipping an object over his face and delivering a dose of something wonderfully soporific and numbing. The person's voice was a faint mix of concern and amusement.

"You're nowhere near heaven yet, buddy."

_Oh, thank Jashin_, Hidan thought dimly, closing his eyes to that blinding glare overhead. _Because that would've been a fucking rip-off, seriously._

* * *

_December 27__th__._

Temari smiled as Gaara appeared in the kitchen doorway, drowsy and tousle-haired and holding his hand out for his morning cup of coffee. She handed it to him and ushered him towards the table before bustling back to the stove.

As she flipped the pancakes, Kankuro bounded down the stairs a few minutes later, hair still dripping from the shower.

"What the hell?" he said in bewilderment upon entering the kitchen, finding Temari standing over the stove with a spatula. "You're actually making me breakfast?"

"Shut up and sit down," she said calmly, turning the pancakes onto a plate and sliding them onto the table. "I can cook for you guys if I want to."

"You and your mood swings," Kankuro said, rolling his eyes but grinning as he plopped into a chair next to Gaara. "So, what's the special occasion?"

"No occasion," Temari replied, turning off the stove to come join them at the table. "I just felt like it."

Kankuro's grin widened as he grabbed the bottle of maple syrup and doused his pancakes in it. "Could you feel like that more often, then? A guy could get used to this."

Temari snorted faintly but smiled nonetheless, gazing contentedly across the table at her brothers as they ate their breakfast. It was the winter holidays and Temari had been grateful to have them around in the days that had followed her final exam.

Kankuro would be off to work and then planned to spend the rest of the day with his friends. Even Gaara had made some friends at school and had spent the last few days working at the library with them on a group project. Temari had never seen him so relaxed and committed to his schoolwork, unable to resist swelling with pride each time she sifted through the graded papers and tests he quietly left for her on the kitchen table.

Gaara glanced up when he felt her gaze on him, giving her a mildly curious look as she smiled faintly and lowered her eyes to the tabletop. Beneath the table, her fingers curled inward in her lap.

Whereas Kankuro merely attributed her sudden attentiveness to them to mood swings, she knew her youngest brother had noticed a distinct change in her demeanor the past two weeks. She kept herself as busy as possible, borrowing cookbooks from the library and indulging them with elaborate, time-consuming dishes; she left no chore undone and frequently carried out errands usually reserved for Kankuro; she spent increasing amounts of time with them when they were in the house and the shadowed, disconsolate look that passed fleetingly and frequently over her face whenever they left her alone did not escape Gaara's discerning eyes.

She was trying desperately to move on and forget, assuring herself that her brothers were enough consolation and distraction from her troubled thoughts. The absence of the weekly letters seemed to have opened up a hole in her life she tried desperately to fill with the mundane activities. It hurt and angered her to think of how deeply she'd grown attached to the correspondence, and even more so when she realized it would take a very long time for her to grow used to living life without it.

Kankuro craned his neck to look out the window. "Mail's here, Temari."

Gaara abruptly stood up before she could rise. Without looking at her, he quickly went to the mailbox and retrieved the mail, leaving it on the kitchen counter and mumbling that the weekly flyers had arrived. As much as she hated herself for it, the news of the flyers incited a pathetic bloom of relief in her chest as she realized she'd have something to distract herself with when they left the house.

Kankuro finished his breakfast soon after and bolted out the door. Gaara left to get ready and then lingered in the kitchen waiting for his ride, watching her as if he wanted to say something but settling for silence instead. Temari pretended to not notice, packing him a snack to take with him and obsessively cleaning the kitchen to spare herself from having to answer any questions he might have had.

It both relieved and disappointed her when a car honked outside and Gaara waved goodbye, leaving her alone in the house. She stood in the centre of the kitchen and listened to the car back out of the driveway, waiting till it disappeared down the street. When it was gone, she released a slow breath and dropped the washcloth she was holding into the sink, trudging up to the counter to look at the mail.

The flyers were bound in a thick bundle and rested atop three envelopes. The first letter was from a credit card company and the second the phone bill. She took her time reading through each of them, simply for the sake of letting time pass. When she finished both and turned her attention to the remaining letter, her breath stopped short in her throat.

It was beige in colour, larger than most envelopes and sporting a military emblem in the top left corner. Her address had been typed out on the sticker label at the front and the return address was one she did not recognize.

For a long moment, she merely stared at it, wondering what it could possibly be when a sick feeling settled into the pit of her stomach. He'd said he had no family or friends; perhaps he'd listed her as a sole contact in the event of his death.

Suddenly, irrationally angry, she scooped up the letter along with the other torn envelopes and turned towards the garbage bin beneath the sink. She threw them in and snapped the lid closed, furious at the stupid army for eradicating two weeks' desperate attempts to forget him and the letters she'd stowed away in the box beneath her bed.

And what would this letter say, anyway? Nothing more than transparent, pseudo-consoling words taken from a stack of mass-produced casualty cards, with serial numbers edited out to list the name of the deceased; and with no body to bury, the futile assurance that they'd provide a grave nonetheless with a coffin containing a flag when that hadn't even been what he'd been fighting for in the first place.

Rife with resentment and burgeoning disgust, she turned away and seated herself at the counter again. The flyers did nothing to distract her; the longer she looked at them, the worse she began to feel, the all-encompassing sense of heartsickness building till she gave up trying to ignore it altogether.

Wearily, she pushed the papers aside and buried her face in her hands, taking a few moments to knead her temples and breathe to calm the anger rending her from the inside. Though it was unbearable for the amount of time it lasted, it subsided eventually, leaving her with a peculiar, empty feeling in her chest.

A person could not delay the inevitable; there was a grieving period, one she would have to live through before she could return to living her life. But knowing that still didn't stop her from trying. Recovering from Chiyo's death had been the hardest thing she'd ever done and she'd hoped to never experience grief like that ever again. The fact that she was experiencing the same grief, and the fact that the pain was as familiar and poignant this time around was more than she could stand.

Against her own will, she turned her head and glanced over her shoulder at the garbage bin.

What would reading it accomplish, anyway? She asked herself, tiredly lowering her eyes to the floor. Would it make her feel worse? Better? Did people read those sorts of things for closure and find comfort in the consolatory words, hollow and meaningless as they were?

She sat there for a long time, staring at nothing in particular as she contemplated the hapless questions, thinking until her options became nonsensical with repetition and she found she no longer cared how it would make her feel. Listless, Temari stood and retrieved the envelope from the bin, taking a moment to look down at it and steel herself.

Then without further hesitation, she slit the side open and withdrew a single sheet of paper, finding it typewritten in the same font evident on the envelope. It was a medical report. A hospital name and emblem she didn't recognize was printed at the top, along with a foreign address. Beneath that was a date reading December 20th.

What followed was a lengthy exposition of patient #001287's injuries, denoted in medical jargon she could barely comprehend. She could only make out the fact that the patient had sustained a total of three gunshot wounds and two broken ribs from blunt force trauma, her bewilderment growing along with the suspicion that she must have received the wrong soldier's medical report. It continued on to say a blood transfusion had been administrated, the bullets were surgically removed, and 48 hours after admittance he was conscious and alert.

The words "exceptional speed of recovery" were not lost on her.

The report ended there. At the very bottom, someone had squiggled something resembling an arrow in blue ink, pointing to the right side of the paper. Finding no other pages in the envelope, and finding her heart suddenly pounding and hands inexplicably shaky, she turned the paper over to the blank side, discovering a single word scrawled in that familiar, haphazard cursive.

_Surprise_

* * *

If hyperbole had ever garnered a more effective use than it had in describing her state of mind as stupefied beyond all reason, she would have genuinely been surprised. It took Temari several days to overcome the combination of shock, elation, and fury at the stupid idiot for putting her through such a rollercoaster of emotion, such that she couldn't even come up with an adequate reason to explain to her brothers why her expressions veered rapidly between relief, happiness and severe annoyance.

Gaara and Kankuro found it better not to ask and left her to contemplate what she'd do next. The first and most obvious thing was to find some way to respond. But after re-reading the medical report, she realized it was impossible.

He'd been discharged on December 20th and granted leave from his duties the same day, so she had no way of knowing whether he still remained at the base or if he'd been moved to another location. Or if he'd already returned home.

As she realized this, her frustration ebbed into a helpless sort of disappointment, a feeling she could no more tolerate than she'd tolerated the ennui that had settled like dust into her life last June.

So, with great reluctance, she turned to the news. Every now and then, the occasional segment on new scientific discoveries caught her attention and she sometimes watched it long enough afterwards to hear some heartwarming reunion stories of soldiers returning home from the war. The arrival dates and names of the airports were usually given and it wasn't farfetched to assume he might be accompanying the next group home.

Days passed and amidst the reports of more casualties, Manzo's death, and the prime minister's endless press conferences, there were no return trips to speak of. Temari eventually grew disillusioned with the news, remembering why she never watched it in the first place. Repelled by its sensationalist tendencies and penchants for showcasing tragedy, she gave up and simply decided to wait, though for what, she wasn't exactly sure.

Problems that led to the car not starting in the cold and the release of midterm results eventually preoccupied her attention. As a result, she spent the first week of the new year familiarizing herself with bus routes, thoughts of where he was and what he was doing lingering in the back of her mind.

Nine days after the letter and nearly getting lost on her way to school, Temari stood waiting for the train in the subway station with her midterm results in her bag. She'd done exceptionally well on each one, and though it was nice to see her efforts had paid off, it offered only a temporary, hollow sort of happiness.

Besides her brothers, there wasn't anyone who would congratulate her or show pride in her accomplishments. The papers would find their way alongside other old essays and exams and eventually the cycle would repeat in the coming semester.

As she lingered there by the wall, the screens of the overhanging news monitors caught her eye. She glanced up at the one nearest to her, taking in the local weather and ignoring the mute broadcaster and stock numbers. A few seconds later, the broadcaster was replaced by a female reporter smiling and standing outside a large building.

Temari watched her apathetically, vaguely wondering what she was reporting about when the camera suddenly panned to catch a shot of a plane taking off.

She blinked, realizing it was the airport, paying closer attention as the reporter said a few more words and paused with a smile. The scene changed to a clip of a short interview and Temari nearly dropped her bag. The tagline beneath the soldier's image identified him as a captain and he nodded and smiled in accordance to the interviewer's questions.

Behind him, other soldiers could be made out embracing family members and filing out of the arrivals gate; at the bottom left corner of the screen, a small black rectangle encased the word 'LIVE.'

"You're shitting me," Temari said out loud in blank disbelief.

Without thinking, she glanced around at her surroundings to remind herself where she was and glanced at her watch. It read 8:15 PM. The bus station was half an hour from the airport. The subway would take half an hour to get to the bus station, which was at the end of the transit line. It would take her an entire hour to get there.

And why are you going there? She questioned herself suddenly, raising her head at the sound of the arriving train. How do you know he'll even be there? Maybe he's still overseas. Maybe he's still recuperating from his injuries. Maybe he went somewhere else.

Brow furrowing in thought, Temari automatically boarded the train and contemplated her choices. It'll take an entire hour to get there. Even if he is with them, everyone will be gone by then and you'll feel like an idiot. Besides, what makes you think he'll wait? He said he had no family. How will you even recognize him?

Her doubts were perfectly plausible and deflated most of her verve, but she couldn't help but acknowledge the smaller, less realistic part of her rebutting.

And what if he is with them? I could just ask someone. And it's not that far from where I live, so it's not going out of my way…

The train ride, which should have taken half an hour, elapsed in what felt like five as the internal arguments continued relentlessly. By the time she realized she was at the station and everyone had already exited, she found herself leaning towards the more pessimistic voice in her head.

To go there would be done on nothing more than a whim. And she was not a whimsical or impulsive person. She planned, she thought ahead, and she counted every variable before forming a decision. Deviating from her usual route home for an impromptu trip to the airport where, not to mention, she'd never been before, was absolutely nothing like her.

But where was the harm? She asked herself persistently as she climbed the stairs to the station, finding her bus idling at its post.

Would it really kill her to take a chance and just see? If he wasn't there, would feeling like an idiot for a few minutes really leave a permanent scar on her psyche for the rest of her life?

No, she thought fairly, stepping out into the cold night air and watching people filter onto the bus. But it didn't hurt to be realistic and spare herself the disappointment, either.

It was the first week of January and the bite of winter was evident in the breeze despite the absence of snow. She shivered and buried her nose behind her scarf, squinting through the wind at the bus as her fingers clenched inside her pockets. She took a step towards it, then stopped.

In that moment, her mind was strangely absent of thought. Her body seemed to be making the decision for her, stolid in the cold air between the terminal doors and the bus. As she waited, another bus pulled in behind the one that would take her home.

It was easy to make the realistic choice.

Her ride lingered as the last few passengers stepped on. To her left, the bus to the airport opened its doors.

But it was far too easy to lose touch in a chaotic, ever-changing world like this. It was too easy to let the potential for something worthwhile dwindle into doubts and regret. Commitment, Temari realized, took far more effort than she'd imagined.

She hesitated only a moment longer, tensing on the spot.

It was way too easy to let go, and it was the thought of imminent regret that urged her to turn her back on the bus home. She gripped her bag tight and made her way towards the airport bus, climbing on without meeting anyone's gaze and settling into a single seat on the far left. It lingered for several more minutes, during which she debated getting off while she still had the chance.

To her relief and simultaneous trepidation, the bus doors finally swung closed and soon it was pulling away from the curb. Temari took a deep breath and wondered why she felt half-sick with nerves and anticipation, trying to evoke the aloof personality of the Temari she'd been six months ago.

It helped, but then she was imagining what she would say, what she would do, and found herself wringing the wad of tissue she held between her hands. The bus took thirty-five minutes to reach its destination, during which its gentle swaying and the hypnotic passage of street lights lulled her into a state of drowsy relaxation. But as the sight of the brightly lit airport came into view, she was stricken with the sensation of a weight dropping away beneath her stomach.

The bus finally pulled in to the stop. Temari waited till the other commuters exited and wound up following a woman and her two children, trailing the family until they entered the terminal and reached the arrivals gate, at which point she stopped dead.

The children ahead of her ran squealing into the arms of a tall man in uniform in the centre of the room, surrounded by at least fifty other soldiers already greeting family members. Around them, sundry scores of others filed out of the arrivals gate, filling the room with a cacophony of noise and jubilation and colour, the chaos only heightened by luggage wheeling past and announcements echoing throughout the massive terminal. Overwhelmed, Temari took a step back and spun around to rest against the other side of the wall, wondering what the hell had possessed her to try to find a person she wouldn't even be able to recognize in a melee like this.

She waited several minutes before emerging from behind the wall to look again, finding the terminal noticeably calmer with fewer people, though it still teemed noisily with new arrivals.

Her gaze swept the room several times, but everywhere she looked she saw soldiers embracing family members, holding up children, or talking on cell phones. She was annoyed for feeling awkward and out of place, and eventually, foolish as she lingered uncertainly by the door. She wasn't even sure what she was looking for in the first place.

One of the soldiers and his family moved aside, opening a gap in the midst of the crowd and revealing the waiting room seats. From where she stood, Temari could make out a pair of legs stretched out across one of the armrests.

Biting her lip, she looked left and right once more, hesitating and feeling incredibly silly as she slowly crossed the room, weaving through the embracing family members. When she emerged through the throng and headed towards the seats, an odd, muted sort of silence welcomed her.

Almost at once, she felt tempted to turn back towards the exuberant crowd and their cheerful voices, feeling even more out of place among the few random people seated sporadically throughout the room. Exasperated at herself, she squared her shoulders and took a deep breath, hands clenching by her sides as she strode over to the man sprawled over the seats.

She'd recognized the army fatigue from a distance. The dull green camouflage jacket and cargo pants were unmistakable. He was wearing the jacket open in the front, revealing the dog tags draped over the white beater underneath, and as she stopped a few meters away, she realized he had a green cap lain over his face.

_Great, _she thought dully. _He's asleep._

Scanning the rest of the people occupying the seats, her brow furrowed in disappointment. There was an old woman, a mother with her toddler, a foreign couple, and a dozing old man.

She lowered her gaze to the sleeping soldier again, about to turn on her heel when she realized the fingers on his left hand were idly drumming against the metal frame of his seat.

Before she could pause to reconsider, she slowly walked over to him, expression automatically growing stony as it always did when she was feeling uncomfortable. He didn't move or seem to notice her presence as she came to a stop by his side.

She cleared her throat.

He didn't react.

"Excuse me," she said flatly.

No response.

"Hey," Temari said loudly, exasperation creeping into her voice.

His fingers stopped their drumming, head turning slightly in her direction.

Fighting off the disgruntled note in her voice, she crossed her arms and spoke, keeping her tone carefully detached.

"I was wondering if you could tell me...do you know Hidan?"

"Who wants to know?" he inquired lazily, voice muffled behind the cap.

"Do you know where he is?" she asked, ignoring the question.

"Maybe. What are you, a cop?"

"I—no," she said sourly, shooting him an irritated look. "Could you tell me where he is, please?"

"I could," he replied, starting up his drumming again. "But then you've gotta tell me who's asking. He just got back from a war, you know, fighting for his country and all—it'd suck for him if you were airport security, or a pissed off creditor or something. Did some guy named Kakuzu send you?"

"No," she said flatly. "I don't know anyone named Kakuzu."

"Then what do you want?"

"Why do you want to know?" she retorted.

He shrugged and turned his head towards the backrest. "Hey, whatever, you don't have to answer. Just keep standing there."

Suppressing the urge to slap him, Temari reached up to rub the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath. The words sounded strange in the back of her mind and even stranger when she finally said them. They almost made her feel self-conscious.

"I'm…his friend."

He stopped drumming his fingers, turning his head towards her again.

"He probably isn't expecting me," she continued, feeling foolish once more.

"Friend?" he repeated, as if the word sounded foreign to him. "He doesn't have any friends."

"How would you know?" she said, annoyed. "You sound like you're looking out for him. Why don't you just tell me where he is?"

"I'll do that when he shows up," he replied, sounding indifferent. "What's your name?"

Temari sighed, uncrossing her arms.

"Just…it's okay. Forget it."

When he didn't reply, she turned away, looking expressionlessly after the dispersing crowd. A _welcome back_ balloon had floated away and clung to the ceiling. Flower petals lay scattered and crushed over the carpet. Several of the soldiers had left their jackets behind. As she stood there, the last of the crowd began tapering off.

She reached for her cell phone and dialed home mechanically, expression blank as she walked back towards the door, staring sightlessly out into the departing crowd. The silence grew more pronounced and the dial tone sounded all the more harsh in her ear because of it. Eventually, Kankuro picked up.

"Hey, it's me. I'll be home in an hour or so. Did you start dinner?"

"About dinner," Kankuro said sheepishly. "It kinda didn't work out so I just ordered something. And I know, I know, I shouldn't be spending my pay cheque on takeout, but come on, it's Friday."

She smiled despite herself, pausing midway to put her bag down and retrieve her bus tokens. "I wasn't about to complain, Kankuro. Just make sure there's some left for me when I get back."

"Yeah, sure."

"Did Gaara eat?"

"I gave him his share as soon as I got in, don't worry. Just hurry up and get home before we eat your half."

"Okay, I'll be there in a bit. Bye."

She pocketed the phone again, taking a deep breath before kneeling to pick up her bag. Mostly everyone had left. There was a distinct sense of being displaced as she stood there amongst the forgotten mementos of crushed petals and army fatigue.

In spite of that, she still turned to glance once more at the arrivals gate, disappointment burgeoning up inside of her again. The feeling was almost immediately tempered by the disconcerting sensation of being watched.

Automatically, her gaze shifted towards the waiting room seats.

The dozing soldier, once sprawled over an expanse of three seats, was sitting bolt upright with his hands by his sides, staring at her with a dumbfounded look on his face. His cap had fallen off onto the floor at his feet.

Bewildered, she glanced around to see if he was looking at someone behind her, but the terminal remained empty.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it.

"That guy on the phone…was that your brother?"

Temari stared at him, blank with surprise before nodding, but it was nowhere near the level of astonishment that lit up his features.

There was a moment of silence that seemed to span a minute, and as her lips parted to speak again, he raised his arm from his side and pointed at her, sounding incredulous.

"Are you…Temari?"

Her eyes widened, and without thinking she automatically focused on his features, as if doing so might abate her sudden confusion.

His eyes struck her first—an intense and startling shade of violet. Then the pale shock of hair swept immaculately back from his forehead, ending at the nape of his neck.

The length of his hair stood out to her for some reason, the significance of the observation not dawning on her until the memory of the first soldiers she saw came to mind. They'd either sported crew cuts or had shaved their heads.

Almost instantly, a line from one of their first letters jumped out at her.

_Those bastards wanted to cut my hair. Like hell I let that happen—they let me keep it after I volunteered to go kamikaze._

Her bag slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.

There was a long moment where neither spoke after that, staring at each other from across the terminal, expressions frozen in shock.

Her lips parted to speak, to ask and confirm who she thought he was, but when she found herself incapable of forming words she reached into her pocket. The expression on his face escaped description when she withdrew his rosary, the beads clinking faintly as the pendant dangled questioningly from her fingers. At the sight of it, his legs seemed to move on their own.

Hidan found himself crossing the terminal before he could fully register that the rosary was really his, only coming to a stop a foot away as the familiarity of the symbol erased all doubts. Transfixed, he reached out to take it, fingers closing around the pendant when it occurred to him to look at the hand holding it. His gaze trailed upwards till it settled on her face.

"Holy shit," he said, eyes widening. "_Holy shit_."

Temari merely stared at him, too floored to speak, but the name embedded into his dog tags brought the reality of the situation crashing down on her all at once. Impulsively, her arms rose from her sides, hovering uncertainly in the air between them until she paused, dropped one and extended her right hand.

He glanced down at it, momentarily looking as though he didn't know what to do until she spoke.

"Nice to meet you," she said finally, voice wavering as she failed to control the smile that spread over her face.

He stared at her hand for a moment longer, expression blank, until he raised his gaze and a grin spread over his features. She nearly jumped when he clasped her hand in a firm grip.

Her hand was small in his, even delicate by comparison when one took notice of the still-healing scrapes and cuts marring his flesh. Yet despite that, his skin was unexpectedly soft, a stark contrast to the sharp, jagged lines his fingers were capable of inflicting on paper. It was unreal, gripping the hand that had filled the last six months of her life with letters.

Before she could say anything else, he tilted his head slightly and smirked.

"What, is that all?" he asked sardonically. "I keep you entertained for six months, almost die, and all I get is a handshake? That's harsh, seriously."

The feeling that overwhelmed her in that moment of hearing him say his habitual "seriously's" out loud was difficult to describe; it made her wonder how one's heart could leap so hard at something so insignificant, even though, to her credit, she remained perfectly composed on the outside.

"What were you expecting?" she replied automatically, inwardly astonished at the ease and familiarity of this. Of him. "For me to leap into your arms?"

His grin was a toss between charismatic and devious. "That'd just complete the cliché, wouldn't it?"

She returned the look with a haughty smile. "I like to think I'm a little more original than that. Besides, I'm not sure it's such a good idea considering what you've been through..."

There was a brief pause where she lowered her eyes to the outline of bandages still visible through the thin material of his shirt and allowed a note of sincerity to creep into her voice. "I'm glad you came back in one piece." Then with slight reproach, "you could have at least added a little more detail to that hospital report, you jerk."

He ran a hand carelessly through his hair, looking somewhat surprised himself. "I know, right? What are the fucking odds. And hey, you try writing after getting the shit shot out of you. Just putting down what I did almost knocked me out."

She wasn't able to hide her concern fast enough, resisting the urge to roll her eyes as he took notice of her expression and smiled in an infuriatingly indulgent way.

"You were that worried about me, huh?"

"Yes," she said flatly, finding no point in denying it. "Even after telling you not to be so eager to die."

"Whatever. I'm standing here now, aren't I?"

"After leaving me thinking you'd blown yourself to pieces for two weeks."

"I'm touched you care so much, seriously."

Temari wanted to punch him but desisted at the thought of accidentally hitting him somewhere in the vicinities of his injuries. At the same time, she was besieged with a strange feeling somewhere between awe and bafflement; here they were, meeting for the first time, shaking hands for the first time, seeing each other for the first time, and talking as though they were two old acquaintances who'd just seen each other across the street. His physical presence was new and unfamiliar, but she knew his likes and his dislikes, his history and his personal motivations and dreams. She knew him in a way few people got to know each other in a lifetime, and he knew her just the same. It was an oddly wonderful dichotomy.

In response to his flippant remark, she merely cocked an eyebrow up at him.

"So how did you get from blowing yourself up to getting shot and breaking two ribs?"

He made a face and scratched the back of his neck. "Long story. I'll tell you when I'm not about to drop dead."

She didn't press him further, recognizing the underlying weariness in his movements. At her silence, he cocked his head and leveled her with a vaguely bewildered expression.

"What are you doing here, anyway?"

Temari gave him a blithe look. "I came to see you, idiot."

She wagered that perhaps most people would have understood this and left it at that, but the entire concept seemed alien to him. He regarded her with an odd expression somewhere between skepticism and intrigue, leaning more towards the latter as he realized she couldn't possibly have any ulterior motives.

If she hadn't known him the way she did, she would have thought him socially retarded for what he asked next.

"Why?"

"Because I think I qualify as something like a friend," she replied dryly. "And that's what they do in these kinds of situations."

It was remarkable, really, how completely unabashed he was in his bluntness. "I wouldn't know."

"Then learn," she announced succinctly. "Because I'm not going to explain it to you."

He couldn't help but smirk at that and she took it as a form of agreement. After glancing around and noticing they were the only two remaining in the room, she cleared her throat and spoke with far more confidence than she actually felt.

"Where were you planning on going?"

"Nowhere," he admitted with a shrug, glancing back at the waiting room seats. "Was gonna spend the night here, try calling my creditors in the morning when the banks open. Can't do shit right now with the cheque they gave me."

Temari regarded him meditatively, the chaos of her mind and conscience not showing on her face and simply manifesting in a slight tightening of her grip on her bag. She was not an impulsive person. She was never an impulsive person. But right now she was simply too elated to care about thinking twice.

"You're crazy if you spend the night here. It's the holiday season. You'll be buried alive."

He shrugged. "Yeah, well, I don't have much of a choice, unless you wanna lend me the money to get a motel room."

She inwardly prided herself for maintaining a straight face when she gave into the voice of conscientiousness.

"No. But I can lend you a bus token."

At his questioning glance, she inclined her head towards the duffel bag he'd left back on the waiting room seats. "Get your stuff. You can drop by my place and make your calls from there."

He blinked, caught off guard. Not giving him an opportunity to answer, she withdrew an extra token from her bag, reached forward, and dropped it into his jacket pocket.

* * *

To both her relief and amusement, he didn't bother with inquiries and merely followed her back to the bus terminal. Temari attributed his lack of questions and general languidness to the stress of recuperation, and despite the burning urge to ask him the many questions teeming at the tip of her tongue, she settled for observing him during the ride back home.

He stood out like a sore thumb between the old woman and chubby six-year-old seated on either side of him, the camouflage ridiculously conspicuous against the bright red seats and monochromatic interior of the bus. The irony almost made her laugh, and gradually her grin faded into a small smile as she leaned back in her seat across the aisle.

His jacket and pants were dusty and faint red lines marred his cheek, remnants of healing scratches. The way he sat, slightly slouched and completely oblivious to his surroundings indicated a physical and mental weariness she couldn't even begin to understand.

He looked incredibly tired, completely immersed in the gentle, swaying motion of the bus and unaware of the thankful smiles people unashamedly threw his way.

She caught each one and wondered what it meant, when you were proud of someone else's accomplishments, when you could accept causes of someone else's happiness as your own and when people made life feel like life and not a chore to get done.

The moment was oddly whimsical and serene and utterly hers, and she committed every aspect of it to memory in the short time it took to get home.

When they reached her stop and he followed her off the bus, muffling a yawn with his sleeve and crossing the short distance to her house, the situation went from odd to positively surreal; it felt so perfectly natural yet uncanny when they paused on the porch as she unlocked the door, when he brushed past the mailbox without a second thought, as though it held no significance, and stepped into the house where, upstairs, she kept a bound collection of his letters in a shoebox beneath her bed.

Temari couldn't spare herself the time to contemplate those things at length, suddenly realizing she hadn't called ahead to warn Kankuro that she'd be bringing a guest.

To her relief, neither of her brothers was in sight and she immediately turned to where Hidan was standing and almost laughed at the look on his face. Besides the fact that he appeared slightly more awake, he wore an odd, surprised sort of expression that made her think he, too, was beginning to realize just how surreal the entire situation was.

"I'll get you the phone," she said over her shoulder as she kicked off her shoes. "Just take a seat."

Without waiting for a response, she went into the kitchen and returned five minutes later with two cups of hot chocolate and the phone, finding him sitting in the living room and rifling through a wallet full of nothing but scraps of paper.

She sat on a chair across from where he sat on the sofa, finding him incongruous against the soft browns and beiges of the surrounding furniture. It was strange, seeing him sitting in the same spot she'd sat in several times reading and re-reading his letters, holding her favourite mug in one hand while using the phone with the other.

Despite her outward casualness, she inwardly marveled at the fact that someone who harboured such violent passion when it came to his faith and possessed a manic compulsion to swear could look practically cherubic when he was calm. She wondered at the way he held himself and spoke, amazed to see he was just as informal and carefree as she'd envisioned him to be, and was even more bowled over when he demonstrated his propensity for keeping none of his observations or opinions to himself.

"The cheap bastard turned off his cell. Why the hell does he even have one if he's not gonna answer his calls?" He grumbled, listening to the message on the phone and pausing long enough to wait for the beep of the voicemail.

"Yeah, it's me, asshole. Answer your fucking phone so I can give you your goddamn money. You've got 24 hours. If I don't get through to you before then, I'm burning your half, seriously."

Then he hung up, scowling at the receiver before putting it on the coffee table.

"Problem?" Temari asked, watching him over the rim of her cup.

He kneaded his temples, muttering. "Motherfucker won't answer his phone, and he kept my apartment as collateral when he gave me my loan money."

Her voice was matter-of-fact. "Meaning you have nowhere to go until you two get in touch."

He threw up his hands in resignation and leaned back to aim a dour look at the phone again. "Yeah, and that's if the shithead decides to answer his cell anytime soon."

Temari looked at him as if she was stating the obvious.

"Then just spend the night."

There was a moment of silence. When he merely stared at her, the corners of her lips twitched and she felt the need to elaborate.

"I meant on the sofa, genius."

"For real?" he said blankly.

"It's as easy as yes or no."

A slow grin pulled at his lips. "Wouldn't sit well with your brothers, though."

Temari made a noise of contempt. "My brothers will understand. Can't let a war hero spend the night in a crappy motel."

He smirked. "I thought you didn't give a shit about the war."

"I don't," she replied, watching him steadily. "I just don't want _you_ to spend the night in a crappy motel."

Before he could reply, she raised her cup again, smiling behind the rim.

"Shut up and drink your hot chocolate."

He did. And they talked, long after both cups were empty and despite the fact he was clearly too tired and she really should've been eating dinner.

It was seamless. Effortless. And she found there was no need to forgo the inanities and superfluous comments; you didn't have to be direct for the other to know what you were really thinking. Conversing face-to-face with tone, body language, and expression intact ensured that.

_You're impulsive, fanatical, and belligerent._

"This is gonna sound fucked up, but even though I knew you were young, I totally expected you to look like some old bat."

_And I'm level-headed, straightforward, and practical._

"Well, with that mouth of yours, I definitely didn't expect you to look like an overgrown cherub."

_I should be confused as to how we can possibly communicate coherently when there are so many contradictions between us._

"What the hell did you call me?"

"You heard what I said."

_I just have to tell you I smile more now and I'm happier._

"In no shape or form do I look like a baby."

"No, just your face."

_I'm happier because you listen to me and talk to me._

"Here I was teaching you about Jashinism for six months and you tell me I look like a fucking pagan idol."

"It's nothing to get upset about. It's adorable. Really."

_Maybe we connect on a level below the surface._

"You're a lost cause, seriously. No point in talking to you."

"And yet here you are, still talking to me."

_Maybe we connect out of desperation._

"To hell with this. I need some fucking sleep before I can deal with you."

"Right, I forgot about that. Bathroom's down the hall and there's food in the fridge if you get hungry in the middle of the night."

He rolled his eyes but looked appeased while doing so and Temari stood to gather the empty mugs and phone, setting them in the kitchen before she disappeared upstairs to find a spare blanket.

By the time she returned to the room, she realized she was too late. He was already asleep, slumped against the cushions without any regard for his uniform or the fact that he really should have been sleeping on his back to keep his weight off his injuries.

Shaking her head at his blatant disregard for his own health, she left the blanket next to him and moved back to the entrance to shut the light. At the same moment, Kankuro descended the stairs, oblivious to the duffel bag he nearly tripped over until Temari gestured for him to be quiet and inclined her head towards the living room.

Kankuro stopped abruptly and did a double-take, whipping around to gape at the sofa. "Who in the hell—?"

Temari grabbed him by the arm and steered him into the kitchen, explaining in hushed tones as Gaara came downstairs soon after, pausing at the entrance to the den and staring, befuddled, at the strange man in military fatigue sprawled over their sofa.

Deciding it would be more trouble than it was worth to ask, he strode into the kitchen to join his siblings as Temari pinched Kankuro to calm him down and his brother emitted a muffled yelp.

And he didn't have to ask, Gaara realized as he watched them. His sister was smiling again and looking more alive than she had for a long time, and it instilled him with a sense of contentment he couldn't even begin to describe.

If her source of happiness was currently asleep on their living room sofa, then he was more than welcome to stay.

* * *

_Epilogue. _

_Saturday, March 25__th__._

The sunlight was glaringly bright, melting whatever remained of the snow and dappling the road with wet, glistening patches. Temari turned the corner of the street and shielded her eyes against the light, appreciative of the warmth on the back of her hand as she walked to the next block.

She'd been waiting for the right moment, particularly after he'd gotten his financial matters in order and recovered from his injuries before deciding to show him the surprise. By the time Hidan had settled into a normal pattern again, three months had passed and she was back to attending school, getting ready to write the next set of exams with him occasionally accompanying the study sessions, usually disrupting them more than helping.

It made her laugh to think back to a few weeks ago when, for a change of pace, while seated on a park bench outside her school, they'd switched texts and she'd read his guide on preaching while he'd read, or at least tried to read, her book on the biology of horticulture. Like she'd anticipated, he stopped after the first paragraph and didn't mince his words.

_What the fuck am I reading right now? Is this even English? _

Disruptive though he was, she didn't really mind. Studying had become a lot more interesting with him around, especially since he'd grown restless soon after settling back into his old life and spent the majority of his time gathering the resources he needed for starting his own church.

_Still a pipe dream_, he'd informed her when she'd asked him about how the search was coming along.

At the thought, she lowered her hand from over her eyes and spotted him.

He was sitting just outside the corner store at the edge of the sidewalk, clad in a black t-shirt and jeans. Several little white specks littered the asphalt beneath his feet and the lid of the gutter nearby. As she advanced, a smirk graced her face when she realized he was holding a small, plastic bag half-full of pomegranate seeds and attempting to spit the pits into the sewer.

When he saw her approaching, he stood up, tying a quick knot in the bag and dusting off his pants.

"So, what the hell was so important you couldn't just tell me over the phone?"

"Good morning to you, too," she replied wryly. "And I told you, it's better if I show you. Let's get going."

With that, she turned on her heel abruptly and started down the street, trying hard to maintain a poker face as he caught up and demanded to know where they were going.

"Chill out. Honestly, you're like an impatient child. Just wait and see."

"This better be worth it, damn it. I was planning on sleeping in this morning."

She only smirked and walked faster.

By the time they reached their destination, he looked completely nonplussed and she had to hold the door open to the building to usher him in. It swung closed with a loud squeak of hinges and then there was silence.

This time, no candles stood lit on either side of the stage, though the faint fragrance of incense and flowers still lingered. The church had been stripped of all religious symbols and furniture and now stood bare save for the pews and pulpit.

Temari watched him as he took a step forward, wondering what he was thinking as he glanced at his surroundings with an inscrutable look on his face.

"How is it?" she asked, when he climbed onto the pulpit and ran his hand over the stained wood of the stand. His expression was peculiar. She could only describe it as wistful.

He shook his head, jumping down from the stage and tucking his hands into his pockets.

"Don't ask. It's fucking depressing." He glanced askance at her, brow furrowed in bewilderment. "Why'd you bring me here?"

She wanted to avoid looking at his face when she withdrew the envelope from her bag but found herself incapable, a faint smile lingering at the corners of her lips as he accepted it with a bemused glance.

The noise of traffic was muffled and dim in the silence that followed. At some point, she managed to shift her gaze away, eyes trailing the drifting spirals of dust illuminated by the panels of sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows. The gentle _plips_ of dripping water resonated from somewhere behind her, interspersed with the rustle of papers.

By the time she felt enough time had passed and she looked at him again, he was staring at her with a dumbfounded look on his face. The papers dangled limply from his fingers at his side.

"You're not…" he finally managed to say weakly, voice hoarse. "Seriously...?"

"Seriously," Temari assured him, trying not to laugh. "And it's not a joke. I'm not that cruel."

He only stared at her, speechless.

"I know it's a fixer-upper," she continued, turning away to look at the peeling paint and leaky ceiling. "But within a year or two, with some work, I think it'll look as good as new."

She reached out to rest a hand on the backrest of the front pew, running her fingers over the worn, gleaming wood.

"I met the minister who owned the place," she added, letting her hand drop back to her side. "He didn't want it going to waste. I guess I left him with a good impression, because he believed me when I talked about you—about how much you wanted your own church. Lucky thing he didn't give up the rights to the place before you came back."

She grinned faintly, lowering her eyes from the stained glass windows. "He said to tell you good luck. Took my word for it, just like that, so now it's yours."

There was a pause. She laughed as she anticipated the look on his face, knowing he was the type to wear his heart on his sleeve and never be reticent when it came to showing how he felt. The thought of seeing his stupefied expression was too amusing to miss, and she finally turned around, voice teasing.

"Guess that says something about you—"

She didn't finish the sentence, stopping abruptly when she saw that he was standing directly in front of her.

Before she could open her mouth to speak, she found herself seized in a vice-like grip, felt the rough chafe of his shirt against her cheek, and smelled something reminiscent of soap and matchsticks before she realized she was being hugged.

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_End_.


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